


Martin of Mossflower

by ScrivenerSavannah



Series: Martin of Mossflower [2]
Category: Redwall Series - Brian Jacques
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Multi, canon veers sharply to the left and I see what happens
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-12
Updated: 2018-06-01
Packaged: 2019-03-17 02:10:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 39,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13649256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScrivenerSavannah/pseuds/ScrivenerSavannah
Summary: The crumbling fortress of Kotir has been occupied for as long as Martin has been alive. With the decline of the wildcat warlord Verdauga, his hated daughter Tsarmina begins to seize power, driving the defeated woodlanders to once again pick up arms. At last given the chance to fight back, young Martin seizes it with both paws, throwing himself into the resistance and determined to make Mossflower free once more. But it will be a long and hard spring for the Corim, and a long and hard journey before Martin can grow into the legend and Warrior he is destined to become.An AU exploration of the questions, "What if Luke's tribe had chosen to stay and fight back against Verdauga? What if Martin grew up in Mossflower?"(pairings and characters will be tagged as they make appearances. Updated every Monday.)





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to Raphcrow for beta-ing for me. Come talk to me on tumblr @sanctuaryforascrivener!

Thick grey clouds hung low in the sky, while snow drifts covered the ground. Between the two, the skeletal branches of Mossflower woods stretched high, trembling as the wind whistled through them. Bundled tightly against the biting cold, a small mouse made his way along the edge of the woodland. A huge, forbidding fortress loomed beside him, but the sturdy young mouse ignored it, sticking to the shadows as he circled the ruin and made his way slowly to the ravaged remains of the compound. 

Very few lights shone in the few huts still standing. He paused at each of these, knocking softly and slipping inside, only to exit a few minutes later. At the last house, closest to Kotir, he put his back to the door, quick eyes scanning his surroundings as he tapped on the door. 

A gruff voice hailed him from within—“Be off with you, and leave us alone! There’s not enough food in here to go around a decent hedgehog family—” 

Impatiently, the mouse interrupted him. “Ben, it’s Martin!” Soldiers wouldn’t have bothered to knock quietly. 

The door opened, and Ben Stickle herded Martin into the one-room hut. His wife Goody stood beside a low-burning fire, with their four little hedgehogs peeping out from between the folds of a blanket behind her. Ben barred the door carefully before returning to the fire. “Martin, it’s good to see you,” he said. Martin grinned, about to reply, but Goody pulled him closer and started patting furiously at the top of his head. 

She lectured as she did so. “Martin, you young, reckless—what in the name of spikes are you doin’ back here? If those soldiers catchered you, I dread to think—you know they’re lookin’ for runaways!” 

“I know, Goody,” Martin reassured her, though he allowed her to continue patting at him. “I was careful, don’t worry, please! But that’s why I’m here.” He rummaged under his dark cloak, and pulled out a thin scrap of bark. “You can’t stay here anymore, any of you,” he said, lowering his voice. “The last of the families are leaving tonight. All of them. I know traveling will be dangerous, but with the rest of us already in Mossflower, it’ll be more dangerous if you stay.”  

Ben shook his head. “Martin, where can we go? Four little ones in the snow and ice? We’d all freeze by spring.” 

Martin didn’t say a word, only handed the parchment to Ben. He studied it in the dim firelight, feeling hope build inside him. It was a roughly drawn map, with a route marked clearly into the woods. At the top was written the word CORIM.

“There are half a dozen safe houses scattered throughout the woodlands,” Martin said, barely whispering now. “They’re sturdier than this wreck, and stocked with enough food for a week. Bella’s opening Brockhall for us to use as a base—you wouldn’t be running blindly into the forest.” 

Ben bit his lip as he stared at the map, before there was another scratch at the door. Martin and Ben were both on their feet immediately. “Who is it?” Ben called as Martin shifted around to the side of the door, out of immediate sight but tense in anticipation. “If it’s soldiers, I tell you now, it’s no use raiding our larders. You’ve done enough of that for a lifetime!” 

“Ben, Ben, ‘tis oi, Urthclaw! Open up, burr. ‘Tis freezen out yurr!” 

For the second time that night, Ben opened the door to an unexpected friendly face. Urthclaw shuffled quickly past him and went for the fire, rubbing his nose and warming his paws. “Vurmin patrols be out, burr, weasels an’ stoats an’ the loik. They’m a lukken fer more vittles.” 

Goody and Ben both looked at Martin, who was gnawing on his lower lip as he thought. “They’ll be finding little but empty homes tonight,” he said quietly. “Yours was the last family I came to see. The patrol’s sure to be on the way here by now.” 

Ben tossed the parchment scrap on the fire, and nodded towards the hole in the wall that served as a window. “Martin, go. Your mother’d never forgive us if you stayed and got caught.” 

The young mouse hesitated, but at last gave in. “Thank you for the warning, Urthclaw,” he said, already hoisting himself through it. “I’ll keep out of sight until they’re gone, then help you get away.” 

There was no time to say more. _Bang, bang!_ The rickety door shuddered in its frame with the impact as Martin dropped out of sight. A nasally voice shouted, “Open up in there! This is an official Kotir patrol!” 

Ben checked that all of their little ones were covered as Goody unlatched the door. The patrol packed themselves into the room, shouldering her out of the way. The two in charge—a ferret named Blacktooth and a stoat named Splitnose—stood with their backs to the fire. They clearly had no intention of leaving until they got what they’d come for. “Well then, dozy-spikes, where’re you hiding all the bread and cheese and October ale?” Blacktooth sneered. 

The hedgehog bared his teeth at the ferret. It was only his wife’s restraining paw on his spikes that prevented him from doing more. As Ben watched Splitnose snatch the last of their food from the shelves, and Blacktooth decide to sentence his young ones to hard labor, he could feel his blood rising as it always had in reaction to the soldiers of Kotir. This time, though—this time, they had an out. 

“That’s it,” he snapped as soon as the patrol was out the door. Ben grabbed one of the blankets and started tucking it around Spike. “We’re leaving. You’re right, we should have left ages ago with the others.” 

“Good to hear it!” Martin said, sticking his head over the window before jumping at it to swing himself back in. 

Ben leveled a disapproving look at him. “You were supposed to be _gone_ , or did you forget you’re a fugitive?” 

The young mouse shrugged, still perched on the windowsill. “I wasn’t about to leave,” he said. “Besides, Gonff would never forgive me if I did.” 

“Burr, Marthen’s a gurt brave mouse, no’m mistake,” Urthclaw rumbled. “Oi’ll be withen ee too, Ben. We’ll get all o’ youns safe.” 

“We’ll have to hurry,” Martin said, hopping down and helping Goody bundle up the little ones, then fetching her shawl for her. “If the patrol comes back, we’ll be in trouble.” 

Ben shook his head. No doubt Martin had grown into a dependable, steadfast young creature. Even in his more headstrong moments, he was invariably thinking of others. “Right-o. Lead the way, Martin.” 

The mouse shook his head as he peered through a crack in the door. “You lead, Ben, if you can remember the map. Urthclaw knows where the safehouse is, too, he can help if you forget. I’ll follow up, covering our trail and serving as rear guard.” 

The little party headed out in single file. Goody herded all four little ones along, though this was made difficult by the fact that they all seemed to think this a great adventure, and would either dash ahead to chatter at their father (“Were you scared when you yelled at the ferret, papa?”) or back to ask questions of Martin (“Are the soldiers _really_ looking for you?” “Are you a criminal?”). Martin shooed them off with the branch he was using to erase their pawprints. Normally, he wouldn’t mind answering any questions Ferdy, Coggs, Spike, and Posey could think to ask him, and as soon as they were truly away from the settlement and he could relax, he’d be more than willing to. For now, he had a growing suspicion that this had all been far too easy. 

It didn’t take long for Martin’s apprehensions to be realized. Walking backwards to make sure they wouldn’t be followed, he heard a shout. 

“Oi! Hey, you there! Stop!” Lagging behind the rest of the patrol, a weasel had caught sight of them as they entered the undergrowth at the forest’s edge. The soldier started toward them, hollering for backup as he did so.

The Stickle family froze. Martin swept Ferdy up and shoved him into Ben’s claws, ignoring the way the spikes bit into his own paws. “Run! Run for it, all of you!” he ordered. “Don’t stop, and don’t look back! Urthclaw, cover their tracks when you get far enough away!” He spun, saw a thick, dead branch on the forest floor, and snatched it up. The balance was off, nothing like the ash staff he practiced with back home, but it’d do. Martin wished he’d thought to bring more than his sling with him, but it was too late for regrets now. 

Without a backward glance, Martin ran to meet the weasel halfway, determined to stall the patrol long enough for the Stickles to escape into the woodlands where they could go to ground. He tripped the weasel with one end of the branch, then jabbed it into his gut, winding him. He saw the other five racing to their comrade’s aide and grinned. “Blacktooth, isn’t it?” he taunted. “Well, come on, let’s see if I can’t give you a black eye to match, ferret face!” 

“Get him, lads! It’s one of those escapee woodlanders! Verdauga’ll want to make an example of him!” 

Martin stood his ground until he could be sure they wouldn’t split up to chase after the Stickle family, then darted to the right, back towards the settlement. All six vermin soldiers followed him, and Martin smiled to himself with grim satisfaction. Well, that’d worked, and a quick glance towards the trees had assured him that the Stickles and Urthclaw had vanished. A pity he hadn’t thought of how to escape himself. 


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, beta-ed by the incomparable raphcrow / faceheightknifefight. Bless.

For as long of a shadow as Kotir cast over Martin’s life, he’d only been within its walls once or twice. Getting tossed in the dungeons for mouthing off was a far cry from being dragged through the gates by six soldiers. 

Martin fought tirelessly, more from the principle of the thing as from any real hope of escape. He paid no attention to where he was aside from how to use his surroundings. He clung to doorposts, got his claws into cracks on the stairs, and upon one occasion managed to wrap the ropes around a stone column. He knew he was being dragged upwards, probably towards judgement at the claws of Verdauga, and fought all the harder for it. If he was being dragged to his execution, then let it not be said he went quietly and meekly to his fate. 

Most of the squad that had caught him had been dismissed as they reached a heavy pair of doors, flanked by two ferrets in full livery. The two soldiers left on the ropes were cowards, intimidated by his ferocity. Martin took full advantage of this. He used the ropes as best he could, threw himself from side to side, yanked the two hapless weasels off balance. One tripped, and he leapt upon him, kicking and biting for all he was worth. The other guard pulled him off, and he was pinned to the floor. Even then he writhed and bucked, but couldn’t get the leverage needed to lift the heavier weasel off him. The guard cuffed his ear, hard, and Martin stilled, panting and half stunned. 

Through ringing ears, Martin heard the imperious demand. “What’s all this? What’s going on here?” 

The room was a large bedchamber, the dark walls stained with smoke and mildew. It was dominated by a massive four poster bed, the foot of which was carved with hundreds of staring eyes. The velvet hangings were tattered and dusty, as were the curtains, and the wood was soot-stained but sound. A fire burned high in the grate, picking out a reflective gleam in the eyes of the three wildcats in the room. The disfigured pine marten advisor sat to one side, as well as the vixen known as Fortunata, who had been caring for Verdauga since he’d first become ill this past summer. 

Martin was hauled upright and forced to kneel. The two guards gripped his shoulders, one holding a spear blade to his throat, the other saluting as he made his report. Martin glared pure venom at the warlord reclining in the four poster bed, barely listening to the weasel. 

“Sire, this mouse is one of the deserters from the settlement. We caught him tonight.”  

“Why have you brought him here, then?” This was Tsarmina, seated in a chair next to her father. Among the woodlanders, she was more hated than even Verdauga for her wanton cruelty. Verdauga was a seasoned and crafty campaigner who knew when compromise and mercy could be of use. Tsarmina didn’t even have that vestige of a conscience. 

“Er, the cap’n thought—” 

“You’re not here to think,” Tsarmina said. “You’re here to obey. You know the laws as well as any—all deserters are traitors to my father’s rule. Take him away and execute him.” 

The weasels yanked Martin to his feet, only to be cut off by a curt word from Verdauga. “You have not been dismissed!” He turned to his daughter. Though his frame was gaunt with his long sickness, his eyes still burned with vitality. “I am not dead yet, daughter. While I live, _I_ am master of Kotir, not you.” She bridled, and gave her father a glare almost as hateful as Martin’s. Verdauga dismissed it, looking instead to his son. “Gingivere, have you nothing to add?” 

Martin studied the younger wildcat with some curiosity. Gingivere was seldom seen among the woodlanders, as he avoided joining his sister and father upon their hunting expeditions and never went to the fields to weed out dissent. His face bore a gentle, long-suffering expression, and whether it was because of some warrior’s instinct, or simply in contrast to the rest of his family, Martin found himself liking him. A pity he was Verdauga’s spawn. Under different circumstances he might have been a friend to the woodlanders. 

After a pause to gather his thoughts, Gingivere spoke. “I know that you have decreed desertion to be an act of treason, and that treason is a capital offense. But more and more woodlanders have fled into the forest. The law would have all your subjects slain.” 

Tsarmina stiffened, but Verdauga held up one paw, forestalling her outburst. “What then is your solution?” 

Gingivere shrugged, and glanced at Martin. “Place him in a cell, and let it be known we have done so. When some sort of peace has been reached, he can be released to rejoin his friends and family, or perhaps guided to the border and exiled.” 

Verdauga pursed his lips, mulling this argument over. “Have you anything to say in your defense, mouse?” 

Burning with righteous anger, Martin would have spoken, seized the opportunity to give Verdauga a piece of his mind. There was nothing stopping him from speaking the truth if he was going to be tossed in a cell and forgotten anyway. At that moment, though, his eye was caught by a flicker of reddish light from the shadows beyond the great bed. 

Over the fireplace hung a display of weapons: a massive battle axe, a club, a beautifully crafted rapier. But it was the sword that had caught Martin’s eye. It was nothing special to look at. The damp and slime of Kotir had worked its curse upon the blade, pitting it with rust where it wasn’t scratched or grimy. Its edge was chipped, and the black leather binding the hilt was tattered and worn. There was a red stone set into the pommel, and though it too was as dusty and disused as the rest of the sword, it still caught the light of the torches, reflecting it back in dim, ruby-red sparks. 

Martin had no memory of the sword, but this did not stop the recognition from crystallizing his fury, pushing him past anger and hatred to something beyond, something almost calm. 

A paw kicked him in the ribs, knocking him off balance. Tsarmina. “My father asked you a question, mouse. Have you anything to say before your sentence?” 

“Those weapons on the wall,” he said. “Where did you get them?” 

“They are trophies,” Verdauga said, a note of curiosity in his voice. “From enemies I have defeated. A reminder of my victories, and a warning to those who would stand against me.” 

Martin nodded, and asked a question he already knew the answer to. “And that sword?”

“A mouse, several seasons ago now. One of your rebellious woodlanders, in fact. He slew almost a score of guards before he was brought down by archers, on the very threshold of this castle. I respected his tenacity and courage, and so took his sword.” 

“You did not face him yourself with honor, but had him shot instead,” Martin said, voice still even.

Verdauga snorted, and broke into a brief fit of coughing. “There is no such thing as honor in war, little mouse,” he said when he had recovered. “Your woodland friends would do well to learn that, if they are serious about this hopeless rebellion of theirs.” 

At last Martin looked away from the sword, back to the wildcat who was propped up with pillows in the grand bed. A ruined caricature of his former strength and glory. “That mouse was named Luke the Warrior, and he was an honorable and courageous mouse who fought for the freedom of his friends and family and their right to live in safety and prosperity without fear. My name is Martin, son of Luke. That sword is mine by blood and birthright. Someday, cat, I will take it back from you.” 

Something flickered in Verdauga’s eyes, and he shifted forward to speak, but Tsarmina was quicker. She crossed to the fireplace and seized the sword in question from the display hooks. She bounded back to stand before Martin, the point of the sword at his throat, both paws wrapped around the hilt. Martin glared into her eyes, ignoring the trickle of blood as his father’s sword dug into his neck. “I have had enough of your insolence, mouse,” she snarled. “This sword is my father’s by right of blood and conquest. I will do you the honor of executing you with it.” She pulled the sword back, ready to thrust it forward.

“ _Tsarmina!”_ It was only Verdauga’s growl that saved Martin from being killed right then. “I have not given judgement yet. This mouse—Martin—is very young, and woodlanders have always valued family. Executing him would only make him a martyr to their cause, give them a stronger sense of unity and a desire for revenge. Therefore, it is my decision that he be escorted to the cells, where he can cool his paws a while.” His eyes narrowed. “That does not mean we cannot punish him. Have him flogged twenty times out on the parade ground, as a reminder that we are not to be crossed. Even our mercy might have teeth.” 

_Snap!_

The retort echoed around the bedchamber. Furious at being overruled, Tsarmina had placed the rusted sword in the gap between door and stone jamb, and thrown her weight and considerable strength against it. Neglected for many seasons, the steel shattered into two pieces, leaving her holding the shorn off hilt. She tossed it to one side like trash, and it clattered to the floor at Martin’s paws. He stood unmoving, staring down at the sword upon the ground.

“There, mouse! Take the sword back! It’ll be as useless to that petty rebellion as you are, stuck in the cells. You,” she said, snapping one paw out to point at one of the weasels. He quivered to attention. “Find some rope and hang it around his neck as a reminder of how _merciful_ we can be.” She shot a resentful glare at Verdauga, who watched with impassive silence. “Are they dismissed now, father?” 

At the warlord’s nod, the weasels hauled on the ropes around Martin. For a moment, his eyes met Tsarmina’s, and he spoke, voice clear and unafraid. “That was a mistake, cat. There will come a day when your fortress is brought to an end, and on that day, I will slay you.” 

Tsarmina laughed dismissively, but Martin kept his eyes on her as he was dragged out of the room, even as the heavy oaken door slammed shut in his face. 

* * *

Gonff, Prince of Mousethieves, stole silently along the corridor from the larder of Kotir, giggling to himself. A sack stuffed with cheese, bread, and flasks of cordials and wines bumped against his back, the results of another successful raid. True, Sayna and Goody both would shake their heads in disapproval and call him a reckless rogue, but no matter—he knew what he was doing. Hadn’t he just managed to trick a pair of guards into turning against each other with nought but a few words? He wasn’t called the prince of mousethieves for nothing!Besides that, he’d found a damson and pear pie, still in its lovely pottery pie dish, which would make a lovely addition to Sayna’s kitchen.

The words to a new song bubbled up inside him, and Gonff sang under his breath,

_Oh fight, lads, fight,_  
_Scratch, lads, bite,_  
_Gonff will dine_  
_On cheese and wine  
_ _When he gets home toni—_

His voice cracked on the last word, jumping an octave and a half, and Gonff fell silent, scowling to himself. A scream from outside distracted him, and he slowed, taking care to conceal himself behind a nearby wallhanging as he peered out the open window to investigate.

There was some sort of disturbance out on the parade ground. A small crowd was gathered about a wooden stake driven deep into the frozen earth, with a handful of guards bunched together near the center.

“Gerrim off, gerrim off!” somebeast was screaming from the center of the knot, and eventually the crowd parted enough that Gonff could make sense of what was going on. A weasel in a captain’s cloak—Gonff thought it might be the one they called Cludd, but he wasn’t too sure—was flailing about wildly. His free paw grasped a knotted rope, while he struggled to shake a young mouse off with the other. The mouse in question had his teeth sunk deep into the captain’s unprotected paw, and even from here Gonff could make out the dark red splatters as blood dripped to the packed snow below.

He could also see exactly who it was.

Gonff ducked away from the window, leaning back to bang the back of his head against the wall behind him. “Martin, matey, why didn’ y’tell me you were goin’ to sneak into Kotir?” he mumbled to himself. “I coulda watched your back! How did you manage to get caught by these lunkheads?”

He snuck another quick look through the window, wishing he could deny what he’d seen. But, no, that was definitely Martin, held off the ground by two guards while a third pried his teeth apart with a dagger, and still kicking away at them. “Don’t know when to quit, d’you?” Gonff said, voice laced with fond exasperation. He set off down the corridor, hoisting the sack higher on his back and thinking furiously.

Martin had been caught, and would be thrown into the dungeon. Which meant it was up to him, as both self-appointed older brother and prince of mousethieves, to break him out again. The only question was— _how?_

An idea struck him, and Gonff did a little hop-skip of delight in the empty corridor at the brilliant cunning of the plan. He immediately turned around and began sneaking back along the corridor to put it into action. This time, the little thief didn’t hum under his breath, keeping even the flasks and crockery in his sack from clunking against each other. The game was over, after all—with Martin’s freedom on the line, Gonff wasn’t about to risk getting caught by playing around.


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta-ed by raphcrow / faceheightknifefight, though any final mistakes are my own.

The cool, damp stones of the cells beneath Kotir were almost welcome against Martin’s back. He ached, like his whole body was one big bruise, throbbing in time to his heartbeat. Wracked by pain and frustration, Martin lay flat on the floor for a few minutes, catching his breath and seething with hatred for the wildcats—Verdauga, who had ordered him flogged, who had killed his father, and Tsarmina, who had broken his father’s sword.

Cludd had not held back during the flogging. He’d taken his wounding personally, and seemed set on making Martin scream. Martin bared bloodied teeth at the ceiling, pleased that he hadn’t managed that much—though he had to admit to himself that he had nearly bitten his own tongue off in the effort, however worth it.

Now he was alone, Martin allowed himself to rest and seriously evaluate his situation. The good news first: the last handful of families were safely out of the settlement; the Stickles and Urthclaw knew he had been captured, and they’d be sure to tell the core of the Corim as soon as they could; the Corim would almost certainly launch some sort of rescue effort, though when and what it would be, Martin couldn’t say; though his back ached, he was fairly sure he’d escaped the flogging without the skin breaking.

Bad news: he was exhausted, hungry, stiff, and in a fair bit of pain; his father’s sword and legacy had been shattered in front of his eyes, destroying any hope he’d cherished of reclaiming it; his mother was _definitely_ going to worry about him.

First things first. Martin braced himself against the floor and rolled over, grunting at the effort it took. A painful minute or two later, he was upright and on his feet, breathing tightly through his teeth. He would have touched his back to check the rope hadn’t broken skin, but the moment he tried to twist, it spasmed and sparks shot across his vision. Best not try that again, not for a while. Carefully and slowly, Martin checked his range of motion. Better to be aware of his limits now than stumble into them during an escape attempt.

A scratch at the door broke his concentration. Instantly alert, Martin put his back to the wall and crouched at the ready, watching the door through hooded eyes. If it came to defending himself, or making a run for it, he’d do it and deal with the consequences later. The scratching continued for several tense seconds, before finally the door swung open. Martin tensed, ready to spring—then almost fell on his face when he saw who it was.

“Gonff?!”

Gonff put one paw to his mouth for silence and winked. “Shh, matey, don’t want to bring the guards back down here, do we? Give me a tick.” He closed the door behind him and fiddled with his knife and wire for a few seconds. The door locked again, he turned and rushed to Martin, catching him up in a quick hug, letting go almost instantly to prod him in the chest. “Haha, you’ve got a face on you like a startled stoat. Didya really thing I was going to leave you down here in the cells?”

“But what are you—how are you—?” Martin spluttered on the questions, grabbing Gonff’s paws, as much to check he was really here as anything else. “I’ve not even been in here an hour, there’s no way the Corim know—”

Gonff dropped the sack off his back with a muffled clatter, tugging on Martin’s arm until he sat with a stifled grunt of pain. “Sit, no point in putting more pressure on your back than we have to,” he scolded, rooting in the sack for something. “Ah, there you are,” he added, extracting a flask. “As for the Corim, er—tha’s ‘cause the don’,” he kept speaking around the cork in his teeth. It gave with a _pop_ and the heady scent of elderberry wine filled the cell. He spat the cork out and continued. “At least, they don’t as far as I know. Haven’t got any water with me, mate, but this’ll work just as well for getting the blood out o’ your mouth. Can’t imagine that’s too tasty.”

Martin grinned ruefully, and accepted the flask. He rinsed his mouth and spat to the side, then rinsed again. “Thanks, matey. But what in the name of mice are you doing here, if the Corim didn’t send you?”

“Rescuing you, what does it look like?” Gonff laughed at Martin’s look. “I was just getting ready to leave Kotir when I heard yelling and shouting from the parade ground out front. Took a peep out the window and what do I see but my best mate with his teeth sunk into some weasel’s paw! What was I supposed to do then, eh, leave you on your own in the cats’ castle?”

“ _Yes,”_ Martin said, and persisted when Gonff rolled his eyes. “What if you get caught, too, Gonff?”

The thief snorted. “Not gonna happen, because as soon as you’ve gotten some food in you and we’ve gotten some sleep, we’re making a break for it.”

Martin leaned against the cell wall, smiling. “Well, I can’t deny that sounds like a good idea.”

“Of course it is, I had it, didn’t I?” Gonff said, leaning back beside him and kicking his paws out in front of him.

“Mm, I’m not sure that means too much,” Martin teased. “It was your idea to climb the tree to see if we could find bluejay feathers.”

“How was I supposed to know that feather mattress hadn’t left yet?” Gonff protested indignantly. “Besides, o champion of good ideas, _you_ were the one who knocked that hornet’s nest down on top of us practicing with your staff.”

Martin winced at the memory, but laughed. “How many of your ‘shortcuts’ have led us right through bogs, o prince of pathfinders?”

“Fewer than yours,” Gonff shot back, giggling. “D’you remember the time you stumbled right into that lizard’s front door?”

“I do! I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like it, that blue and black striped menace skittering after us, hissing like a tea kettle.” Until that moment, Martin hadn’t known how many muscles of the back were involved with laughing. “All right, all right. Escaping is a good idea, but how did you get here in the first place? I know I didn’t see you on the way down here.”

Gonff grinned, grabbing his sack and going through it again. “You were too busy putting up as much of a fight after a flogging as anyone could, weren’t you? Which reminds me, turn around so I can check your back over. And eat this while you’re at it.” He shoved a wedge of cheese into Martin’s paws.

“You worry almost as much as Mum,” Martin protested. “My back is fine. Stop fussing over me.”

“Mhm. Turn around anyway so I can make sure,” Gonff said, brooking no argument and prodding him in the side until Martin reluctantly obeyed. “I’m the oldest, it’s well within my rights to worry about my baby brother.”

“You’re only older than me by a season,” Martin grumbled around a mouthful of cheese.

“Season’s still a season.” Martin flinched as Gonff ran paws over his back—careful as he was, it still hurt. “Well, you’re definitely going to be sore for a while, but you’ve not got much more than scratches and scrapes. Anyway, you’ll like this, it was one of my cleverer ideas, if I do say so myself,” Gonff said. “The last place they’re going to look for intruders is in a locked cell, right? So as soon as I saw you’d been arrested, I snuck down here and locked myself into one of the empty cells. These old padlocks don’t stand a chance against the Prince of Mousethieves! I can get them locked and unlocked in five seconds flat.”

Martin laughed, turning to face him again. “Well, I’d be lying if I said I’m not glad to see you,” he said. “I’d hate to be stuck in here alone.”

Gonff ruffled his ears until Martin swiped at his paw half-heartedly. “Of course you would, matey. Get some sleep, I’ll take first watch. And next time you decide to sneak into Kotir, let me know so I can go with you, yeah?”

“Next time I get captured by soldiers, I’ll be sure to bring you along,” Martin said lightheartedly. “Although I wasn’t sneaking into Kotir, only the settlement. The last of us are out of it, now. A patrol spotted Ben and Goody and the little ones. I bought them some time.”

Gonff took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Thanks for keeping them safe, but we’ve got to talk about this sacrificing-yourself thing, Martin.”

“They ought to be safe in the woods now, and that’s the important thing. Who knows? They might even be as far as Brockhall, since I’m sure they’ll want to get word to Bella about what happened.”

* * *

When Ben Stickle showed up at the door of Brockhall breathless and shivering and without his family, Bella could only assume the absolute worst. “Ben?” she demanded as she hustled him out of the cold. “Where’s the rest of your family? Goody, and Ferdy, Coggs, Spike, Posey?”

Ben shuddered and sneezed as he trundled along beside her. “Safe, marm. Perfectly safe,” he assured her through chattering teeth. “Hidden away in one of your safe houses.” As they entered the common hall, he broke step from her to head straight towards the fire. He rubbed his paws vigorously together, and shook melting snow off with a rattling of spikes. “But Martin’s in trouble.”

“Martin is—oh, dear,” Bella said. “Stay here and warm yourself, Ben. I think there’s some vegetable soup leftover from dinner that we can heat up for you. It won’t be as tasty as Goody’s, of course, but it’ll at least be hot. If Martin’s managed to land himself in enough trouble to send you straight here, its something the Corim are going to need to hear about. That one doesn’t do things by halves—he and Gonff both.”

“As you say, marm,” Ben agreed grimly. He rubbed his snout and sneezed again. “He’s been arrested and taken to Kotir.”

* * *

The core of the Council of Resistance in Mossflower, called the Corim by most everybeast, consisted of serious and competent woodlanders. Bella of Brockhall was the sole badger in Mossflower, whose family had long served as leaders and advisors for their woodland friends and allies. Skipper Warthorn was a brawny, burly otter leader, quick with his booming laugh and quicker with his sling in defense of his crew. Lady Amber was the local squirrelqueen, a no-nonsense, experienced archer whose tongue could be as sharp as her arrows. Sayna had led the Warrior’s tribe since Luke’s death, and still possessed the understated strength and wisdom that had captured the warrior’s heart as much as her beauty. Vurg, Luke’s closest friend and second in command, acted as her advisor; his experience, strategy, and creative tactics were a welcome addition to the woodland resistance.

The Corim sat in grim silence about the fireplace as Ben recounted their flight from the settlement. “Took a bit of arguing to get Goody moving again,” Ben said. “I tell ye, neither of us wanted to leave ‘im with a squad of soldiers comin’ over the hill, but we’d have all been captured if we’d gone back. I’m sorry, Sayna,” he said, looking at her with compassion and no small amount of guilt. “It all happened so fast. As soon as Martin saw the soldiers ‘e was gone, shoutin’ back at us to run for it. We couldn’t do much else but get as far away as we could.” He sighed. “Urthclaw covered our trail. Fate keep him well, ‘e’s with my Goody and the lil’ uns now.” He nodded respectfully at Bella. “But we thought it best the Corim be told as soon as possible, so ‘ere I am.” 

“And we thank you for it, Ben,” Bella said in her rumbling voice.

“You’ve no need to defend your actions to me,” Sayna said. Her eyes were dry, but her paws worried at the hem of her apron, plucking at a loose thread. “It couldn’t have been easy, leaving your family to get word to us. Thank you.”

“Least I could do,” Ben said gruffly. “That boy o’ yours helped out every creature in that cursed place at one point or another. I still remember him turning up at our door past midnight caked in mud and burrs but with thyme and peppermint in paw. That was when Posey couldn’t shake that cough last winter. Gonff was right beside him and just as big a mess. Huh, never mind that they were risking the stocks being out past curfew.”

Skipper chuckled. “Aye, that sounds like the pair o’ scallywags. I’d trust the both of ‘em with m’life, young as they are.”

There was a low murmur of agreement. Sayna smiled with pride. “So, we’re agreed to rescue him?”

“Of course we are, Sayna,” Bella said. “Ben, I’m sure you’re exhausted. It’s far too late to travel now—in the morning, we’ll be able to escort you back to your family. For now, why don’t you stay here? There are beds made up in the dormitory.”

“I’ll walk him there,” Sayna volunteered, rising to her feet. “I trust all of you, and I’m not sure how much help I’ll be in this discussion.” She shook her head. “I’m afraid I’m far too worried to think straight.”

Vurg watched her go, then sighed deeply. “Wouldn’t know to look at her though, would ya?” he said with admiration. “That ‘un’s got the self-control of a beast twice her age and twenty times her experience.”

Amber nodded once. “Still, no reason to keep her waiting longer than she has to. Though how we’ll break Martin out of Kotir I don’t know.”

Vurg grinned a little. “You forget, Martin and Gonff have been attached at the hip since they met. He might not be as quick or skilled as our little ‘prince,’ but I know for a fact Gonff’s made sure Martin knows his way about a lock. Get him the tools and I’d lay acorns to apples that he could get himself out of the dungeons, at least.”

Skipper snorted. “Shoulda expected that, I suppose. It’s a sound plan, though ’tis a fair difference gettin’ out o’ the dungeons and gettin’ out o’ the castle.”

“We could help with that,” Amber cut in. “If we can keep those soldiers busy somehow, they’ll be less concerned about whatever might be happening inside the fortress.”

“A diversion of some kind?” Bella mused, folding massive paws under her chin. “I expect that could work very well. What sort of diversion are you thinking?”

The three warriors exchanged glances. “Hit ‘em quick and cast off?” Skipper suggested.

“They’d chase after us after an unprovoked attack,” Amber agreed.

Vurg nodded, a sly smile creeping across his whiskers. “Aye, and we might lay a false trail into those marshes while we’re at it, keep the vermin busy.”

“Send a note instructing Martin to sneak out east into the woods while we’re attacking the west,” Amber suggested. “Small squads, send a detachment to meet him and escort him to safety.”

“Half a score of otters and squirrels each?”

“I know a few of us mice who could keep up,” Vurg objected.

Shaking her head, Bella levered herself out of her chair. “Then I leave the details to the three of you,” she said. “Sayna and I can supply you with some rations. Shall I assume you won’t leave until morning?”

Vurg waved one paw in acknowledgement, already deep in discussion with Skipper and Amber over who to send on the mission.

Bella didn’t have to go far to find Sayna—she was waiting for her right outside the door, and fell into step as they walked down the halls towards the kitchens. “I thought I might find you listening in.”

Sayna smiled modestly. “I may not feel as if I can contribute, but I’ll rest better tonight knowing what plans are laid. I also have something to tell you.” Bella glanced down at her friend. “I didn’t want to say anything in front of the others, as it may be nothing, but I haven’t seen Gonff all day.”

The badger shrugged. “He does ramble about the woods frequently.”

“Yes,” Sayna acknowledged. “But he also goes out of his way to avoid me when he’s planning a raid on Kotir, because he knows I don’t approve.” She pursed her lips. “I’ve a feeling that he already knows Martin’s been captured, and if he does, he’ll be right in the thick of it. Nothing _ever_ goes to plan when it comes to the pair of them.”

Bella chuckled. “Perhaps, but things work out for the better more often than not.”

“I just want to know that they’ll be safe.”

Bella paused, and rested a gentle paw on Sayna’s back. “An old friend of mine told me that whatever happens, the future will be. All we can do is prepare for it as best we can. We’ve laid our preparations, and now we can only meet it as it comes.”


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'ed by Raphcrow / faceheightknifefight, though final editing (and therefore mistakes) is my own.

Gonff and Martin had switched sentry duty twice before much happened. Gonff had flatly refused to leave Martin alone in the cell, but after five minutes’ arguing and half an hour’s sulking, they compromised. Gonff was propped in the corner, their best guess as to the blindspot from the grill. Martin was sitting with his back against the opposite wall, where he could watch both the door and Gonff. At the moment, however, he was staring up at the narrow strip of sky and the single star visible through the grate far above his head.

They’d be leaving around dawn the next day. It was still too early for Martin to move as easy as he’d like for an escape, and there was always the chance that the guards, still excited from the capture of one woodlander, would be on higher alert than usual.

Martin’s thoughts were disrupted by a faint noise from above. His ears twitched, and he straightened, listening intently. Footsteps, and coming closer. “Hsst!” Martin flicked a pebble at Gonff, who jolted out of his doze instantly. “Guard!” he mouthed. Gonff nodded and stood, pressing himself farther into the corner. Martin had scrambled to his feet and faced the door, supporting himself with one paw against the wall.

A key grated in the lock, and a stoat poked his head in slowly, mostly out of sight behind the emblazoned shield he held. His face visibly fell when he saw Martin was upright, and he muttered something unintelligible.

Martin bared his teeth in something that was a little too aggressive to be called a smile. “Scared, stoat?” he taunted.

“Of a mouse half my size?” the stoat snapped back. “Ha! Don’t make me laugh.” He didn’t lower his shield, though.

“How’s your lip?” Martin asked, recognizing the stoat at last as Splitnose, who’d been in the patrol who’d captured him.

The stoat scowled this time. “None o’ that, or I won’t give you the bread and water,” he said.”

Martin stuck out his tongue. “I don’t want your moldy old bread, anyway,” he said. In the corner, Gonff put both paws over his mouth, shaking with stifled giggles _._ Martin struggled to not glance at him.

Splitnose snickered. “A few days of nothin’ll cure that attitude—hey, wait…” He frowned and pushed the door open, taking a full step into the dungeon. “Whazzat?” He was looking at Gonff’s sack, which Martin and Gonff had forgotten to shove out of the way. Gonff’s eyes went wide and he tossed a panicked look Martin’s way.

He swallowed. “What’s what?” he said, playing for time.

“That sack!” Splitnose said, taking a second step into the dungeon. His attention was fully on the sack as he tried to puzzle out its presence. “Where’d you get your paws on—”

Martin glanced towards Gonff, then the door. Gonff took the hint and threw himself at the door, locking the stoat in with them. As the stoat swung around to see what had happened, Martin dived for the bag on the floor, swinging it wildly as he ducked and came up. The burlap sack, laden with hard cheese and flasks of wine, collided with the back of the stoat’s head with a hard _crack_.

Splitnose slumped to the ground.

Martin gritted his teeth at the spike of pain from his back. Gonff nudged the stoat with one paw. “Did you kill ‘im?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Martin admitted. “What’s _in_ this thing, it's heavy as a rock!”

Gonff took it from him, opened it, and peered inside. “Ah, that’s what I was afraid of, matey. You shattered the pretty pie plate I was bringing your mum. Ah, well. Hopefully her son’ll do the trick instead.”

Martin shook his head at Gonff’s incorrigible impudence. “You’d make faces at Verdauga even if you were in chains,” he informed Gonff with a laugh.

Gonff flashed him a grin as he slung the haversack over his back. “C’mon, we’d better get going.”

Martin nodded wryly. “After that? Aye, we don’t have much of a choice, do we?”

Grabbing Splitnose by the forepaws, they hauled him into the dungeon between them. Along with the bread and water, Splitnose was carrying a curious thing. Gonff picked it up, spinning it between his paws with a bemused frown. “What d’you think he was doing with something like this? Bit useless, half a sword.”

Martin stared at the hilt. Rope was wound tightly around the pawguard, the ends dangling, turning the hilt into a pendant, or a medal. It took him a moment to speak. “Better than nothing, though. Pass it here?”

Gonff shrugged, but tossed it to him. “Here, matey. I’ll stick with my dagger.”

Nodding absently, Martin wound the twine about his paw and grasped the hilt. A shudder ran down his spine, raising the fur in its wake. There was only a few inches of steel left below the hilt, and the blade’s edge was dull with seasons of neglect, but it was so much closer to right than any other weapon Martin had wielded. So much closer, and yet so much farther, too. Martin grit his teeth, hatred for Tsarmina roiling within him. For a moment, he considered marching out of the cell to find the wildcat now, slay her _now_ with the broken blade she had called useless _—_

Gonff’s voice broke the spell. “Doesn’t seem like that din drew any attention. Grab the keys off that stoat and let’s get out o’ here.”

Martin shook his head quickly, forcing that sudden red fury back down. Going after Tsarmina now would only get Gonff killed. “Right. You lead the way, I’ll cover your back.”

The pair of mice hurried down the long corridor of cells, scurrying up the winding staircase. At the top was a oak door. This Gonff pressed his ear to, then eased open. “All clear,” he murmured, and they slipped through, closing the door soundlessly behind them.

In the wee hours of the morning, the lower levels of the fortress seemed even more dank and despairing than usual. Lit by guttering torches, the broad hall stretched away, empty in either direction. “Which way?” Martin asked Gonff.

“Er—” Gonff hesitated. “I’ve never been down to the dungeons before,” he admitted, bending to put his dagger on the floor. “We’ll have to trust to luck.”

Martin watched the dagger spin on the floor, trying to remember the last time their luck hadn’t just gotten them into a more complicated situation. If anything, they were lucky to still be alive…

“Left’s as good a direction as any,” Gonff said, scooping up the dagger. “Come on.”

Martin followed him as they stalked silently down the corridor. His paw was gripped tightly around the hilt of the sword, and both mice kept their ears pricked for any sound of approaching guards.

They reached the bottom of a long, sloping staircase, and crept up it carefully, checking around corners and sticking to the shadows as best as they could. At the top was a smaller corridor lined with doors. None of them looked as if they’d lead outside—worse, a pair of guards at the far end of the corridor let Martin to recognize where they were. He snagged the back of Gonff’s jerkin and hauled them both back down the stairs. “Masters’ quarters,” he breathed. “That was Verdauga’s room. I don’t think we were spotted.” They stole back down the staircase, holding paws and hardly daring to breathe.

There was a loud cry and clatter from above them. Certain they’d been discovered, Martin dragged Gonff down the stairs and flung open the first door he came upon at the bottom. It was a storage closet, and they crowded in among the mops and upturned buckets. Hearts pounding, they listened intently to the soldiers rushing back and forth outside.

“My Lord Greeneyes is dead!”

“Lady Tsarmina, come quickly! It’s your father!”

“What?” Gonff said incredulously. In his rush to put his ear to the door, he clocked Martin in the eye with one elbow. “Sorry, mate.”

“Guess they didn’t see us after all, then,” Martin muttered, rubbing at the injured eye with his free paw.

“Guess not.”

Tsarmina’s voice rose in a caterwaul of emotion. “Murder! Murder, my father is slain!”

Gonff snorted his skepticism at that. “She sounds so torn up about it, too.”

“Murder, Gingivere has poisoned Verdauga!”

Martin and Gonff peered at each other in the gloom, speaking at the same moment.

“Poison?”

“ _Gingivere_?”

Beyond the door, chaos reigned. Metal on stone, the tramping of dozens of paws, continued shouted accusations and cries of disbelief. Through it all Tsarmina’s wail could be heard, accompanied by Ashleg and Fortunata. “My brother has murdered my father!”

“Gingivere has slain Verdauga!”

“Murderer! Kill the murderer!”

After a minute or two, the tramping died down. Silence. Gonff eased the door open and glanced both ways along the corridor. “Coast’s clear. Wonder where that lot have gone…”

“Listen!” Martin gestured towards the heavy oak door they had originally come through. Tsarmina’s voice echoed up through the open doorway, her words indistinguishable.

“Now’s the time, while they’re all down in the dungeons and distracted,” Gonff decided, grabbing hold of Martin’s free paw and dragging him down the corridor. “It sounded like every soldier in the place was heading down to the dungeons.”

Martin nodded and broke into a run. “Come on, then, matey!”

They dashed down the hall, silence thrown aside for speed. If they weren’t out of the fortress before the guards emerged from the dungeons, they’d certainly be caught. And this time, they wouldn’t just be imprisoned—this time, they’d certainly be executed.

Gonff stopped as they passed a side corridor. “Wait, wait, wait,” he said, and turned into it, pulling Martin behind him. “I know where we are now, mate! C’mon, this passage leads east. We can get out that window at the end there, and from there it’s just a quick dash to Mossflower! Ha, told you I wasn’t lost!”

“I knew you’d find the way out. Though as I recall,” Martin panted as they raced for the window, a smile sneaking across his face, “You said you’d never had to go down to the dungeons before.”

“Okay, but I never said I was lost.”

“You didn’t have to, you implied it.”

“I implied that I’d get unlost!” By now, both were smiling broadly as they tossed comments back and forth, relief that they were so close to being in the clear making them giddy.

“You implied that you didn’t know where you were.”

“D’you always have to have the last word?”

“Do _you_?”

Gonff pushed open the window with a giggle. “Of course I do! Now, come on, you’re going out first. I’ll lower you down, and then I’ll drop from the window sill. And before you argue with me,” he added as Martin opened his mouth to protest that he was stronger, he should lower Gonff down, “You’re wounded, or did you forget about that? Closer you are to the ground, the less joltin’ that back of yours’ll take.” Martin huffed. “An’ I’m _not_ takin’ no for an answer. We’ll waste time arguin’, so get up there so I can help you down.”

“You’re insufferable when you’re right,” Martin muttered as he was lowered to the ground.

Gonff landed beside him a beat later, adjusting the haversack on his back. “So’re you. Come on, matey, we’re home free if we make a run for it.”

They dashed into the fringes of the woodland, glee and adrenaline from the successful escape rushing through them.

“Y’know, I reckon the Corim’ll have a field day when we come waltzin’ back in, safe’n’sound.”

“Do you think we’ll be in much trouble?”

“Nah, no worse than we have been afore. They’ll be too glad to see us. ’Tis a pity you cracked that pie plate, though. I was goin’ to ask your mum to bake an apple pie.”

“You’d just steal it. You know, I’d like to make a clean getaway. Just once.”

“Ha, there’s no fun in that, matey! Besides, what d’you call that time with Mrs. Riparia, when we stole her blackberry turnover?”

“We? Don’t you mean _you_?”

“You shared it, mate, that makes it a joint effort.”

“Either way, we had to jump into the river to get away from her.”

“Free bath! I’d call that a clean getaway, wouldn’t you?”

“Gonff!”

Laughing at each other, the pair of mice raced each other into the fringes of the woodland—free, for the moment, of cells and wildcats and soldiers and worry.


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last hands on it were mine, so any fingerprints and smudges are my own fault and not to be blamed on my beautiful beta, raphcrow.

The small war party moved through the woodlands an hour before dawn. Between Skipper, Amber, and Vurg, about a score of fighters had been raised, beasts skilled in both stealth and direct combat. The plan was to do some cursory reconnaissance when they reached Kotir, get the message and dagger to Martin, and lie low. A couple of hours after dawn, they’d send three or four of their fighters around to the east, then mount an attack upon the southwestern gates of Kotir, making as much noise as possible to draw the cats’ attention. Then, after a while, they’d break off and flee into the woodlands, splitting up again. The mice, equipped with tools to make fake prints and escorted by squirrels, would lead the soldiers on a chase before escaping through the treetops. Meanwhile, the otters would rejoin the earlier squad, and they’d all meet back up at Brockhall. If the soldiers didn’t give chase, then they’d simply head straight to Brockhall, covering their trail as they went.

It was a sound plan, designed for maximum confusion among the enemy and minimal losses on their side. Later, Skipper would be mildly disappointed they wouldn’t get the chance to put it into practice.

Even with squirrels in the trees above providing a vanguard, Skipper had done his due diligence and sent scouts along both their flanks. No sense in taking chances, after all. One of these scouts, Bula, came back to him now.

“You’ll never guess what I just found, Skip,” he said, chuckling.

Skipper looked at him in bemusement, but waved a quick halt. Timballisto, the young mouse who’d been marching behind him, almost tripped headlong over his rudder at the unexpected stop. “What?”

Bula nodded behind him. “Martin!”

Amber dropped from the trees above them—Skipper startled and swore under his breath—and spoke in unison with Timbal, who’d been listening carefully. “ _What_?”

Vurg had pushed his way up to the front to find out what was going on. “What ' _what?'_ What’s going on?”

“I saw Martin!” Bula repeated gleefully. “He and Gonff—looks like the little thief stole a march on us.” 

Vurg was already shaking his head in amused resignation, Lady Amber looked disgruntled, but Skipper grinned widely and had to stifle the beginnings of his own laughter as the tension of the rescue mission started to bleed out of his crew. “C’mon Amber, no need to look so sour. Were they both shipshape?”

“Best as I could tell, though I only got close enough to recognize ‘em. Pushed off and came back here to let you know. I thought we might sneak up on ‘em, just for fun.”

A snowball collided with the back of Bula’s head, accompanied by a call. “Kinda hard to do that when we know where y’are, matey!”

Gonff pushed through the bushes with a shower of snow, grinning at the rescue party. “Bit late, you lot. I had to start without you,” he said. He had pulled one of Martin’s paws over his shoulders, supporting the younger mouse as they walked. Martin did not looked pleased that he needed this support, but also too stiff to effectively protest. “Afraid Bula was a little off. Martin got a bit beat up,” he added before anyone could say anything.

Timballisto came up on his other side, taking some of the weight off Gonff. Chipper though the little thief was, and though he was in better shape, they both looked exhausted and cold.

“I’ll be fine—”

Vurg snorted at this. It was a familiar, and invariably false, protest. “You’re not trusted t’be the judge of that,” he said in a no-nonsense tone that had been used often as Martin had grown up.

“We don’t have time to be fussing, Vurg!” Martin argued. “I’d welcome some water, but Gonff checked me over in the cell and that’ll be more than enough until we get to Brockhall. We’ve got information for the Corim. It’s _important_.”

The advance scouts were starting to filter back in. Skipper raised his voice, recalling his own troops. He and Amber started issuing quiet new orders, while behind him, Vurg and Martin continued arguing in an undertone, with occasional input from Timballisto.

“You are in pain, I can see it all over your face—”

“It isn’t that bad. It was just a knotted rope, not even a proper whip—”

“You were _flogged_ and you’re insisting it’s not that bad?” That from Timbal, who was always somewhere between shocked and exasperated with Martin’s dismissive attitude towards his own hurts.

“Vurg, please, I need to tell the Corim—“

“Whatever it is cannot be more important than you getting actual medical treatment! Stars and fates, Martin, a _flogging—_ ”

“ _Verdauga’s dead!”_

The rescue party stilled. Above them, the ice-covered branches creaked and crackled in the wind, a sudden eerie chorus in the silence. Even Vurg had backed down, staring at Martin in disbelief. “Say that again.”

“Verdauga’s dead,” Martin repeated, less intensely. “He died while we were making our escape.”

“Aye,” Gonff said with a shrug. “The uproar actually served as a pretty good cover, didn’t it?”

Martin laughed, exchanging grins with his friend. “It did, at that.”

Vurg sighed, and scrubbed at his brow with one paw. “All right, you win, that’s important information. I’m guessin’ you both know all about it?” Martin nodded. “Good. Then I move we split up. Lady Amber, you can get through the trees back t’Brockhall faster than we can on the ground. Could you take Gonff with ye?”

Lady Amber gave a sharp nod. “We’ll meet you there. None of your shenanigans, young thief.” Between four squirrels, Gonff was helped up into the trees and swung away, laughing uproariously at the thrill, almost like flight.

“An’ we’ll stand guard while we clean Martin up and make our way back a bit slower, aye?” Skipper said, grinning at the frustration on Martin’s face as he realized he now had no argument against being fussed over.

“Aye,” Vurg said, crossing his arms and looking at Martin. “Timbal, lend him your canteen. You can have some o’ the rations out of my pack, and we can get a salve and bandage on you afore we head back to Brockhall.” Martin gingerly lifted the shirt from his back as Timballisto sorted through the healer’s kit borrowed from Fripple.

“An’ you can give us a report before we cast off,” Skipper added. “What ‘appened? Ben tol’ us how you got caught, but we don’ know much more.”

Martin flinched as snow melt was splashed on his back. “Not a lot to tell, really. Gonff was in the middle of a raid, so he came down to get me out. We heard Verdauga had been killed while we were escaping. Tsarmina was saying Gingivere did it—”

* * *

“—But Martin doesn’t reckon he’s capable of it. I think he’s right. Poison sounds more like Tsarmina, but the long an’ the short of it is that Verdauga’s dead and Gingivere’s dead or in the dungeons. Which means Tsarmina’s definitely in charge," finished Gonff.

Bella, Sayna, and Lady Amber had all crowded into Bella’s study to hear the latest news, and though all three were grim-faced, none of them could say they were particularly surprised. “This changes things,” Bella said, settling deeper into her armchair.

“Does it?” Amber asked, paws crossed. She leaned against the mantel, eyes roving around her allies. “We were already planning to launch a full scale rebellion come spring, since we’re as snowbound as that lot up in Kotir.”

“Yes,” Sayna agreed, “But now we know for certain that we’ll be dealing exclusively with Tsarmina. Any thoughts of forming an alliance with Gingivere will have to be shelved, and the army won’t have Verdauga’s tactics, or his leadership.” She held up one paw, anticipating Lady Amber’s protests. “I’m not saying we should abandon our cause, not in the least—we may even have a better chance in the long run, as Tsarmina won’t have the experience of her father. But we may need to modify our own strategies come thaw.”

“And once it does, we’ll be in a fight for our lives,” Bella said. “Verdauga was willing to come to a peace—Tsarmina is crueler and far more ruthless. She won’t be satisfied with the level of control Verdauga had. We’ve seen that trend for the past couple of seasons. It’ll only get worse.”

A knock at the door heralded Skipper and Vurg’s arrival. “Marm,” Vurg nodded to Bella with respect. “We heard it all from Martin. He’s in the infirmary now,” he added to Sayna. “His back’s a bit banged up and he’s got quite the collection of bruises and scrapes, but for the most part he’s no worse for wear. I can tell ye whatever we discuss later, Sayna. If you and Gonff want to go check on ‘im, I’m sure he’d appreciate your company.”

Gonff knew a dismissal when he received one, and left the room after a short, flourishing bow. “Thank you, Vurg,” Sayna said quietly, putting a paw on his shoulder as she passed him. She paused in the doorway, turning back to look at Bella. “You’re certain you won’t need me?”

Bella shook her head. “Go look after your son, Sayna. I expect we’ll be dismissing soon anyway.”

“Aye, it isn’t so much a council of war as it is a council of supplies,” Skipper said as Sayna closed the door behind her.

Amber cocked her head at him. “Oh? How so?”

Bella though, was nodding. “What we should focus on for the winter is preparation. Preserving medicines, weaving bandages, keeping stock of food and drink—but also making arrows, bows, lances, slings.”

“And practicing with them,” Skipper put in. “But aye, if we build up our supplies now, we’ll suffer less come spring.” He shrugged his broad, tattooed shoulders. “I didn’t wan’ to say anythin’ in front of Sayna, especially since I’m sure she already knows. But we were lucky today. Luckier than we can expect t’be again. We ought to figure out plans for any non-combatants, too.”

“I’m certain many of our friends can fit here,” Bella said. “But knowing a precise number and preparing enough space for everyone—yes, that’ll be necessary.”

“We need a quartermaster,” Vurg put in. “Someone to keep track o’ this sorta thing—food and medicine and weapons. Logistics, all o’ that. I’d wager Sayna could do it blindfolded and with one paw tied behind her back.”

Bella smiled. “Yes, I think you’re right. She’d be perfect for the job, as long as she agrees to take it. An excellent recommendation, Vurg, thank you.”

“Oh, you won’t thank me,” Vurg said with a dry laugh. “She’ll be good at it, aye, but don’t forget, she can be a right force of nature when she wants to be.”

* * *

At that moment, the force of nature’s attention was focused upon her son, stretched flat on his stomach in the infirmary bed. She sat bedside, running her paw lightly over Martin’s headfur. “Ben says you were very brave.”

“Mm.” Martin mumbled, and buried his face in the pillow.

“You were _also_ very reckless.”

“ _Mm_ ,” Martin mumbled again, this time with greater emphasis. “I know.”

“Six soldiers, Martin, what were you thinking?” Sayna asked, somewhere between exasperation, resignation, and pride. “No, don’t answer that, I know what you were thinking. That someone had to, and no one else could.” She sighed. “I love you, and I am _very_ proud of you, and I would never, ever wish you were anything less than who you are. But sometimes, Martin, I wonder if there isn’t too much of your father in you.”

Martin reached up and caught her paw between his, squeezing tightly. “Mum, I’m all right. Please don’t worry about me, really.”

“Only thanks to Gonff,” Sayna pointed out, trying to sound stern. She shook her head. “That and a great deal of luck. Please, Martin. I know you won’t ever be able to stand by if someone needs help, but _please_ try not to get caught like that again.”

Martin winced. “I’ll try, Mum. I promise, I’ll do everything I can to not make you worry.”

“That’s all I can ask.” She straightened up, smoothing her apron down in quick movements. She stood as Gonff walked back over to them from where he’d been talking with Fripple, the most experienced healer among them. “Gonff, you little rogue, come here,” she demanded, and swept him into a tight hug. Gonff leaned into it, returning it just as tightly. “Thank you so much, for saving your brother.”

Gonff coughed as Sayna released him finally and shuffled his feet on the stone floor. “Well, we broke the pie pan I was bringing back for you, so I had t’find something else,” he joked with a shrug. “And I wasn’t about to just leave him on his own. Who knows what sort of trouble he’d get into then?”

“Not as much as you,” Martin shot back. Gonff plucked the feather from his cap and tickled at his bare footpaw. Martin yelped and pulled his feet quickly away, then hissed in pain. “You—”

Sayna flicked Gonff gently on the arm, then Martin on one of his legs. “Behave, you two.”

Gonff flashed her a sunny smile and plopped down into one of the chairs. “Fripple says you’ll be a bit stiff for a while, yet, but you should be fully back to normal in a week or two,” he reported. “After that she and Timbal got a little distracted muttering and not looking at each other, so I left them to it. Anyway, matey, I’ve been meaning to ask—why’d you keep that old hilt?”

Martin sighed, and pushed himself slowly upright. “Hand it to me, would you Gonff? Bedside cabinet.”

Sayna recognized it the instant she saw it, and sat down on the foot of the bed. “Oh, _Martin_ …”

He took it in both paws, one cradling the pommel stone and the other carefully supporting the remainder of the blade, the twine wrapped around its hilt lying bunched in the bedsheets. “Verdauga had it hanging on his wall,” he said quietly. He didn’t look at Sayna, staring instead at the burnished crosstree. “A trophy, though he _said_ he took it out of respect. Tsarmina broke the blade after I was sentenced. Mum, I couldn’t stop her. I’m sorry.”

Gonff glanced between Sayna and Martin. “Er…”

“It’s Luke’s sword,” Sayna explained, and reached out a hand to rest lightly on the pawguard, where blade met hilt. “After that last, failed assault, I thought it must have been lost or claimed as spoils of war by some soldier. Luke wanted to pass it down to Martin, someday.”

“And now I’ve let Father’s legacy get broken,” Martin muttered. His paws curled tight about the sword. He didn’t seem to notice the blade biting into his palm. “Some warrior I am—”

“None of that,” Sayna said. “What have I always told you about being a warrior?”

“That it’s the heart, not the blade, that makes one a warrior or not,” Martin responded automatically. “But Mum—Father’s _sword_ —”

“There are other swords. A sword has no inherent power. It is imbued with no special magic, only the history of the warrior who wields it. Perhaps here is where this blade’s story ends.” Sayna sighed, and reached out to rest her paw on where blade met pawguard. “So be it. You will have a sword someday, Martin. I know it will be a renowned blade because _you_ will carry it.”

Martin swallowed. “Mum—”

“Oh, shush and take the compliment, matey,” Gonff said, kicking his footpaws up to rest on the edge of Martin’s bed. “I’ve known you were a warrior since you first shouted in my ear seasons ago.” Martin tried to tickle Gonff’s feet in retaliation, but Gonff just grinned at him. “You know I’m not ticklish. Anyway, enough about swords and fighting and warriors—are you hungry? I am.”

“Aye, I could eat,” Martin admitted. “Am I allowed to leave the infirmary, Mum? _Please_?”

“Oh, I suppose so,” Sayna allowed. She stopped him from jumping out of the bed. “ _Slowly,_ you’re still injured! One more question—do you mean to keep this?”

“Yes,” Martin said without hesitation. “It feels right to. Yes, I want to keep it.” He started to sling it around his neck by the twine, only to stop when Sayna held out her paw.

“All right. Then give it here. I’ll try to figure out some way you can wear it without slitting your own throat by accident.” Martin blinked at her. “It’s not as simple as just wrapping the rope about the hilt and being done with it!” she scolded. “Honestly, Martin, you jump around too much and you’ll slice your own ear off, however dull and rusty it is. You and Gonff go get food, and ask whoever is on cooking duty to make up some trays to send to Bella’s study.”

Martin gave the sword to his mother and quickly kissed her cheek. “Thanks, Mum. Love you.”

“I love you, too. Now get, the pair of you. And stay out of trouble!” she called after them as they walked down the hall, Martin slower and stiffer than usual but keeping easy pace with Gonff. She leaned against the doorway and sighed, the hilt of her husband’s sword dangling loosely in one paw as she watched her sons.

Thank the fates they were both back safe with her. For however long she had with them, for the moment they were all safe.


	6. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All mistakes and awkwardnesses are mine and not to be blamed upon raphcrow, the wonderful, incomparable, patient beta that she is.

It had been a long winter, but spring had finally reached Mossflower country. The morning sunlight filtered through the newly budding leaves upon the trees, washing the undergrowth below in a green-tinted glow. The River Moss chuckled over the pebbled stream bed, sounding so cheerful it was impossible to not chuckle along with it. Three young mice made their way through the undergrowth: Gonff, capering in the lead and twittering away on his flute; Timballisto, holding a short list written on barkcloth and a basket; and Martin, ash stave in one paw and quick gray eyes watching the surrounding forest as they walked. Though the day was unusually warm for so early in the season, and Martin had always endured the cold more easily than his friends, he still wore his cloak, fastened at the shoulder with a curious clasp.

A few weeks previously, his mother had presented him with the result of her clever engineering. The sword hilt of Luke the Warrior had been repurposed into a brooch, mounted on some sturdy steel and strong enough to hold even the thicker cloth of his winter cloak securely fastened. Since then, Martin was rarely seen without it, particularly when abroad in Mossflower Woods.

After a long winter of weaving bandages and fletching arrows, the trio had finally been allowed to escape from the confines of Brockhall. Nominally, they were to be gathering fresh herbs to expand the infirmary’s stores—in reality, Sayna had recognized Gonff and Martin’s growing restlessness and sent them outside before they accidentally broke something. Timballisto had gone along as a favor to Fripple, though their elders also hoped his responsible nature would counterbalance Gonff’s impulsiveness and Martin’s recklessness.

Gonff turned a series of cartwheels ahead as Martin and Timballisto compared Fripple’s list of herbs to the contents of their basket.

“Comfrey, peppermint, willow bark—”

“We haven’t got dock leaves yet, have we?”

“No, but they’re everywhere, we can get some on the way back.”

“True enough. Oh, isn’t that yarrow?” Martin ran ahead, catching up with Gonff and tugging him towards a small patch of yarrow beneath the spreading leaves of an oak. Gonff went with him, singing the while:

_“Across the lea, beneath the leaves_  
_When countrylands wake up to spring,_  
_Hurrah here comes the Prince of Thieves,_  
_Hear every small bird sing._  
_So daring and so handsome too,_  
_He makes a wondrous sight—_  
_But if he comes to visit you,  
_ _Lock up your treasures tight!”_

Martin grinned at his friend. “Aye, and unfailingly modest our prince of mousethieves.”

“And generous, and clever—” Gonff said.

“And ecstatic that his voice has finally stopped changing, so that it doesn't crack on every high note,” Martin finished innocently.

Gonff sniffed. “You’re just jealous yours hasn’t finished yet,” he said with much put-upon dignity, straightening. “Hi, Timbal! I think we’ve got enough—”

“Shhh!” Timballisto shushed them, waving frantically for them to join him. “Look,” he said, pointing through the trees towards a narrow path.

A brightly painted cart was rumbling down the path, pulled by a huge female badger. Inside the cart were a pair of squirrelmaids and a mole, while a hare and about a score and a half of mice walked alongside it, chatting to each other without a care in the world.

“The Rambling Rosehip Players—plays, pantomimes, poems, magic, mystery, and magnificence,” Gonff read off the side of the cart. “Don’t think I’ve ever met wanderin’ players afore, mates.”

“Those mice aren’t minstrels, though,” Timballisto murmured. “The hare, the badger, those squirrels—they’re all wearing the same sort of tunic, almost a uniform, but most of the mice’ve got those odd-looking robes. Wonder where they come from. Not nearby, if they’re walking through Mossflower as bold as all that.”

Martin was scanning the forest around them with narrowed eyes, gripping his staff slightly. Suddenly, his paw shot out. “Look, there!” he hissed. “Kotir patrol.”

“What?”

“Where?”

“They’re just behind that elm,” Martin said, watching the pair of ferrets closely. “Looks like it’s just the two of them—definitely not enough to take out a badger, and I’d wager that hare’s no pushover, either.”

“Aye, they’re takin’ off,” Gonff said. “Back to Kotir for reinforcements.”

“We’ve got to stop them—!” Martin started after them, only for Timballisto to grab his shoulder.

“No,” he said. Martin pulled away, glaring at his friend. “Martin, think for a moment. We have no real weapons but for your staff, and we can’t be sure there really _are_ just two of them. What if they’re part of a larger patrol? Besides, that’s not our priority.”

“Those creatures are,” Martin said slowly, looking away from Timballisto back to the traveling minstrels and robed mice. “Of course.”

“Then what _do_ we do, mateys?” Gonff asked. “We’ve got to do something, and fast. It won’t take long for Tsarmina to get a platoon up and out of the woods, not if there’s a chance of nabbing that lot for labor. Even she’s got to recognize that fallow fields don’t make food, and soldiers don’t make farers. ”

“We’ve got to get word back to Brockhall,” Martin said, eyes still on the troop. “And we’ve got to warn them, and guide them there.”

“Right,” Timballisto said. “Martin, you should—”

Martin interrupted him. “ _You_ need to run to Brockhall.” He looked at Timballisto, gray eyes deadly serious. “Timbal, you’re the fastest sprinter of the three of us, and we need to get word there _as fast as possible._ Skipper and Lady Amber need to know, so they can reach us with a guard. Gonff knows Mossflower better than any of us, he’ll be best suited as a guide.”

“Right you are there, mate,” Gonff chuckled. “Timbal’s the fastest runner, I’m the prince of pathfinders, and you’re our buddin’ warrior. You and I ‘ave got to defend that troop until Timbal can return with back-up.”

The older mouse sighed. “All right,” he said. “All right. I’ll bring reinforcements along the River Moss to meet with you, so head that way. And don’t get yourselves killed. If you get ambushed, you _run_ for it, got it?”

“Got it,” the pair chorused. The group split, Martin and Gonff tearing through the undergrowth to catch up with the troop, Timbal shooting off at an angle directly for Brockhall.

“Ho, the cart!” Gonff called as the pair raced towards them. “Ho, Players! Wait for us!”

They broke onto the path near the front of the odd little column, almost tumbling over each other as they tried to slow down. The badger hauling the cart had slowed down upon hearing their shouts, and still had to dig her footpaws in deep to stop herself from running them over. There was a high pitched shout from within, and a pretty young squirrelmaid poked her head out, pouting. “Rowanoak, will you _warn_ a lady before you stop like that? I almost hit my head! What if I’d given myself a black eye?”

The badger—Rowanoak—ignored her. “Where did the pair of you come from?” she asked, dropping the hafts of the cart and staring down at them. “What do you want?”

“I’m Martin, and this is my mate Gonff,” Martin introduced them quickly, gesturing to Gonff with his staff. “And we stopped you because you’re in serious danger. Wandering through the wildcat’s territory like that, not even armed or trying to conceal yourselves!”

“Wildcat?” A quavering voice spoke, and Martin turned to see an elderly mouse in a robe making her slow way through the crowd. “This is a wildcat’s territory?”

“Old Verdauga’s still kicking, then?” the hare asked briskly, and looked at Rowanoak.

“No, so I hope you weren’t friendly with ‘im,” Gonff said. “His daughter, Tsarmina, is in charge at the moment, or at least, she’s tryin’ to be,” he added with a laugh.

“Trying or not, one of her patrols saw your cart, and they’re bound to have taken word back to Kotir,” Martin said.

Gonff broke in. “Which means Tsarmina’s bound to send troops out to catch you lot, so she can make you work for ‘er.”

“So we’ve got to help you get safe to Brockhall as fast as possible,” Martin finished.

The badger and hare looked at each other, smiling in amusement at the rapid fire back-and-forth. The elderly mouse, though, clasped Gonff’s paws. “Brockhall! Oh, but this is wonderful, that’s precisely where we are trying to go! And you can take us there quickly?”

Gonff winked, breaking free to sweep her a deep, mock-courtly bow. “Marm, we know enough shortcuts to get you there in two shakes of a cat’s whisker!”

Rowanoak stooped to pick up the shafts again. “Then I say, lead on, friends. Talking can be done on the way, if the situation is really so dire.”

* * *

From the high, luxurious master bedchamber in Kotir, Tsarmina stared out the window over her domain. It had been a long winter, with dwindling food stores and demoralized troops. The fact that patrols had yet to uncover the woodlanders’ hideaway was concerning, too. Spring had come, and there fields were as empty and barren as they had been all winter.

The wildcat queen curled her lip in disgust. That paltry rebellion of theirs was still smoldering away. They refused to see that it was doomed to failure. Once her soldiers managed at last to find the cursed lot, they’d put paid to the rebellion, just as her father had so many seasons ago—only she wouldn’t be so weak as to offer mercy.

A knock at the door interrupted her musings. Cludd, the weasel captain of the guard, poked his head around the door. “M’lady, two scouts have just reported a band of mice and a few other creatures passing through.”

Tsarmina’s ears pricked up in interest as she turned to face her captain fully. “Woodlanders from the settlement?”

“No, m’lady. Strangers.”

She waved this off. “No matter, they’ll make as good of workers as any. We can put them in the dungeons this time, so they won’t get ideas… Gather a contingent—one, no, two platoons ought to do the trick. Have them ready to march in a quarter of the hour.”

“Yes, m’lady.”

“I’ll lead them myself,” Tsarmina added, looking out the window again and digging her claws into the wooden sill. She was practically purring at the prospect. It had been a long winter, cooped up in Kotir with so little in the way of entertainment, particularly once there was no longer her brother or father to plot against. A quick sally and successful capture was just the thing, not to mention breaking in new workers for the fields. A few days in the dungeon on starvation rations would weaken most any beast’s will.


	7. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly one of my favorite chapters to write, so far. Thank you again, Raphcrow, for agreeing to beta for me.

The Rambling Rosehip Players were loath to abandon their cart, though Rowanoak and the hare Ballaw, their leaders, recognized the necessity of it, especially once Martin promised some woodlanders could be sent for it once everyone was safe. This did not prevent the fussy squirrelmaid Celandine from complaining, but as long as she kept her voice down, Martin didn’t care. Not only were Tsarmina’s forces abroad in Mossflower and looking for them, but there was always Argulor to watch out for.

Still, very little could keep Gonff serious. He and Martin played off each other expertly, keeping the mood light and bringing smiles to the somber looking mice. They told tales of some of their sillier exploits against the guards of Kotir, like the time Martin had managed to lead a patrol blundering right into a patch of stinging nettles, or when Gonff convinced a particularly dimwitted guard that if he covered himself in honey and dust, he wouldn’t catch the sniffles that had been going around the barracks at the time. They kept a good pace, and had reached the banks of the River Moss by mid-afternoon.

Ballaw and Rowanoak called a halt, and rations were distributed for a quick lunch. Nothing that needed to be cooked, of course, but bread and cheese and the odd apple were welcome after a long, hard walk.

Several creatures soaked their footpaws in the river, including much of the Rambling Rosehip Players and some of the younger mice. Martin sat further up the bank with the elderly mouse, Abbess Germaine. He scanned the opposite bank and the tree-line, keeping an eye out for the glint of sunlight on chainmail or spear blades. He’d relaxed considerably since they’d reached the wide river without incident. They could expect to meet with Timbal at any moment, but it was better to be watchful, just in case. “You’ve said you were traveling to Brockhall deliberately, ma’am, but where do you come from? Why are you all dressed in robes?” Martin asked, indulging his curiosity.

“We came up from the South, from a wonderfully peaceful place called Loamhedge. Ours is a healing order, one dedicated to preserving knowledge and helping others. But even we could not heal the sicknesses that have begun to spread in the south…” The Abbess trailed off, the slightest sob in her voice.

“Why come to Brockhall? Do you know Bella?” Martin asked, hoping to distract her from what were clearly painful memories.

Germaine smiled, and patted his paw, recognizing the attempt and thanking him for it. “Indeed I do, young Martin. Bella is an old friend of mine, from very long ago.We gave her shelter during her wanderings for nearly a season, as I recall. When she left, she promised that if ever I was in need she would aid me in whatever way she could, and extracted a promise from me in return that someday I would visit her in her ancestral home of Brockhall.”

“Aye, that sounds very like Bella,” Martin agreed with a fond smile. “She did the same for my own tribe, after Verdauga’s forces razed our old home. I was born in Brockhall.”

Rowanoak, who had been sitting nearby, nodded. “I thought as much, though of course I couldn’t be sure. You look very like your father, Martin.”

Martin spun around so quickly he nearly fell from his perch upon the rock, staring at the badger with wide eyes. “My father? You knew my father?” Sayna spoke of Luke the Warrior often, as did Vurg, but the chance for new stories was irresistible.  

She smiled and dipped her head in acknowledgement. “I did indeed, though only briefly. I know Bella, too, from her wanderings—I introduced her to Barkstripe, in fact. Several seasons back, the troupe and I wintered in Brockhall. You would have been far too young to remember now, but Luke spent many a long evening in front of the fire with us, sharpening arrows and listening to us talk.”

Wide-eyed, Martin was about to ask more, but he was suddenly pulled from the rock by his footpaw. He yelped and flailed as his attacker dragged him into the water. He was almost instantly released, only to come up sputtering beside a laughing Gonff. He dived at his friend without a second thought, knocking him under and sending them both rolling in the shallows. The second time they broke cover for air, it was to laughter ringing along the banks. Gonff grinned and waved, and Martin turned just in time to see a pretty young mousemaid wave back.

“Showoff,” Martin sing-songed just loudly enough for Gonff to hear, and got splashed for the comment. He laughed and splashed back, and they made their way back to the bank to sun themselves dry.

“Up you get, young feller,” Ballaw said, chuckling as he hauled them each in turn back onto dry ground. “Quickest way to cool off, I grant y’ that, but perhaps we ought to keep movin’, wot?”

Gonff accepted his hat from the pretty mousemaid with a gallant bow, presenting her in turn with a sprig of crowfoot he’d plucked on the way back. She tucked the bloom behind her ear with a small smile. “An excellent idea, matey.”

“We ought to head east along the bank,” Martin offered, wringing out the edge of his tunic as best as he could. “Our friend, Timballisto, went ahead of us to bring an escort, just in case. We’re sure to meet with him soon.”

Martin retrieved his staff from the flat stone he’d been sitting on, and took up a position on the side closer to the forest, midway down the line. Ballaw and Rowanoak led—they had some familiarity with this area as they had been to Brockhall before. Until they needed to turn off into the forest, the path was straightforward enough that Martin needn’t worry overmuch.

At the moment, he was a good deal more interested in finding out more about the pretty mousemaid Gonff was smitten with. She seemed just as taken with Gonff, and Martin quickly found out that she was named Columbine, had been with the Loamhedge order for the last few seasons, and was quite accomplished in healing, often serving as assistant and apprentice to Abbess Germaine, their master healer. Martin encouraged her interest, telling her about times Gonff had snuck out into the woods to fetch various healing herbs, as well as some of his more daring escapades, including the clever ruse he had pulled last winter, hiding right under the guards’ noses to break him out of Kotir.

He left Gonff and Columbine flirting and trotted towards the front of the column to walk again with the abbess. She glanced at him with twinkling eyes. “It is very important, of course, for relationships to be forged between our order and the woodlanders,” she said, “especially if we hope to build a permanent home here.” They exchanged smiles tinted with mischief. It was a relief to know that Abbess Germaine approved, though Martin couldn’t imagine why she wouldn’t. It was Gonff, after all—any mousemaid would be lucky to settle with him.

Martin was just starting to ask Abbess Germaine about her plans when he saw the gleam of sunlight on metal from the corner of his eye. Acting on instinct, he threw himself at the abbess, knocking them both to the ground. A spear whistled over their heads, burying itself in the ground in the middle of the column.

“Ambush!” Martin hollered, springing upright again as the rest of the volley flew out of the woods. “We’ve been caught, _ambush!”_ Several spears found targets among them. At least one Loamhedge mouse fell, and Martin felt his blood boil at the injustice of it. These were peaceful mice, dedicated to healing and helping—they weren’t woodlanders, part of this conflict!

Rowanoak scooped Germaine up with one paw, placing her on her broad shoulders and keeping her steady. “Run! Down the bank!” Her bellow carried farther than Martin’s had by dint of larger lungs and stage training. The Loamhedge mice broke rank and dashed pellmell along the riverbank.

“They’re in the woods to our side and behind us,” Ballaw reported. “C’mon, young warrior, discretion is the better part of valor, don’tchy’know!” Martin hated to retreat, especially from soldiers of Kotir, but he had promised Timballisto he would run—though he, Ballaw, and Gonff did stay to the back to cover their retreat.

Fates be praised that they had noticed the ambush early, and that Tsarmina wasn’t a tenth of the tactician her father had been. They moved too quickly for theslower, armor-laden soldiers to outflank them.

The next few minutes were a blur as they raced for their lives. The soldiers were catching up when they rounded a bend to see a platoon of otters bounding forward to meet them, Timballisto among them. They broke rank, allowing the mice and minstrels to pass through, before closing again, smoothly flowing together to present a united front, double-pointed javelins held at the ready. 

Skipper clapped a heavy paw to Martin’s back as he reached them, not taking his eyes off the regrouping Kotir forces. “Good job gettin’ ‘em here, matey,” he said, teeth bared in a ferocious grin. “We’ll take it from ‘ere.”

“Not likely,” Martin panted, turning to join the ranks of otters. Gonff joined him, and they quickly fell in to where they’d most frequently practiced with the crew during their drills. Gonff took his place in the second row of sling-beasts, as he lacked Martin’s proficiency with the staff, while Martin stood in the back rank, in reserve for close combat. Guessing at the form Timballisto’s protest was about to take, Martin interrupted. “Rowanoak and Ballaw know the way, now that they’re closer. Rowanoak’s an old friend of Bella’s, and the troupe has been to Brockhall before. They already knew where they were going. We’ll be more help here.”

Any further argument was curtailed by Tsarmina herself, striding forward through her soldiers. She was dressed in armor, her helmet’s visor lifted and with slits for her ears. A green velvet cape, trimmed with a black ribbon stitched with green, evilly slitted eyes, swirled behind her. Martin supposed it was meant to look intimidating, but really all he could think was how incredibly impractical such a fancy cloak was in the middle of a forest, let alone in the middle of a fight.

She lifted one paw and let a single claw slide free as she pointed. “Those mice are trespassers within my domain, and it is within my rights to do with them as I wish,” she said imperiously. “ _You_ are rebels to the true ruler of Mossflower, and I will not hesitate to kill you if you do not let me pass _now_.”

Skipper stood at ease, a loaded and ready sling dangling from one brawny paw. “Go and chase your mangey tail, pussycat.”

Tsarmina hissed in fury, and raised one paw. A row of archers immediately behind her began fitting arrows to bowstrings, but Skipper was quicker off the mark. Like their commander, the otters already had hefty river pebbles locked into their slings, ready for the order. It came without hesitation.

“First rank o’ slings, fire!”

They ripped off a clattering volley, many of the stones striking the paws of the archers, or finding targets deeper in the soldiers’ ranks. One stone bounced off Tsarmina’s helmet with a loud clang. Martin grinned.

“I imagine her skull’s ringing a bit,” Gonff chuckled from in front him.

“Like a bell,” Martin said. “Careful, here they come!”

Clutching at her head, Tsarmina yowled in fury. “Charge! Charge the blasted rebels! Kill them!”

The soldiers had been slower to organize than the crew, but proper ranks didn’t matter in pitched battle. The second rank of slings got off another volley before they fell back, allowing the lancers forward. The two sides clashed in a flurry of fur and blood. An otter running beside Martin went down, a spear through his gut.

Martin didn’t think about it, throwing himself into the fight with a ferocity that startled him. He lashed out with his staff, targeting paws and unprotected necks, driving the end into chests and stomachs, winding opponents. He tried to keep track of Gonff, but soon lost track of him in the chaos of battle.

It almost came as a relief to fight face-to-face, to literally strike back at the regime that had oppressed him his whole life.He blocked a stab that would have lamed Brook, though it meant the spearpoint lodged in the grain of his staff instead. He shattered the stoat’s paw in retaliation. A step to the left brought him opposite a weasel in a captain’s cloak named Thicktail. For once the rank meant some level of competency, and he blocked Martin’s first strike.

His staff splintered, leaving Martin clutching two halves of ashwood. The roar of battle faded for a moment as Martin froze, his eyes fixed on the shattered wood. “Gotcha, mouse!” Thicktail snarled, raising his spear to thrust at him.

The world surged back into motion.

Martin ducked away from the initial thrust, flinging one half of his staff at the weasel’s nose. It collided as Martin brought the other half to hold double-pawed, grip shifting down to clutch at one end. With a yell, he lashed out, the weight of the ash thudding into Thicktail’s gut. He parried another slash from the spear, and battered away at the captain. Slash, thrust, slash, slash again, parry again—Martin drove Thicktail back and down, batted the seeking spearpoint away. His teeth were bared in a fierce grin as he pursued his enemy—his blade may be too dull to slay him quickly, but _he could still slay him—_

“Cut and run, crew!” Skipper’s bass bellow rang above the din of the fight, and Martin found himself gripped from behind. He struggled, writhing as he was lifted bodily from the ground and away from his enemy. What was Skipper doing, taking him away from his opponent? “Deep breath, messmate, we’re going for a swim!” Skipper gasped into his ear.

Martin had just enough sense to obey the order before the entire crew bounded into the river, the icy waters closing over his head and dousing the last of his battlerage.


	8. Chapter Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta-ed by Raphcrow / faceheightknifefight, though any final mistakes are my own.

Back on the bank, Tsarmina yowled her victory to the surrounding forest and dashed to the water’s edge. She was so intent upon following the retreating otters that she narrowly avoided entering the river herself. Catching herself, she backed away, eyes on the calmly flowing water as if it might rise over its banks and attack her. Rubbing at her fur, she narrowed her eyes downstream, peering uselessly into the depths in hopes of seeing one of the rebel otters.

Nothing.

Behind her, the soldiers had raised a ragged cheer. “We won!”

“Ha, they ran away!”

“Otters? Huh, more like babies! We licked ‘em!”

“We _won_!”

It was almost insulting how shocked they sounded. Tsarmina sniffed, eyes on the casualties. Four otters lay dead on the bank. Good. Opposite them, a full dozen of her own soldiers had fallen to the wickedly sharp lances wielded by the woodlanders, and more than one soldier nursed moderate to severe injuries, including one of her captains. The wildcat queen sneered in disgust. The otters may have retreated, but her potential slaves had still escaped, and the rebels had killed three times the number they had lost, even though her soldiers were superior in arms and training.

She ripped the helmet off her head and slumped moodily at the base of the tree, swiping at a wildflower that was growing there. Picking up on her mood, the soldiers began shuffling uncertainly, their previous excitement deserting them. “Our victory here today must not be wasted,” she said at last, looking over her soldiers imperiously. “You two, Brogg, Scrat,” she ordered, pointing a claw at two of her sergeants. They saluted eagerly. “You’re to return to Kotir immediately. Have Fortunata bring the Gloomer to me.”

The two ferrets goggled at her in terror. “The—The Gloomer, milady?”

“Lady, he’s _completely mad!”_

Tsarmina narrowed her eyes. “Of course he’s mad. I don’t care. You’re to bring Fortunata and the Gloomer back here, to me, by morning, or I’ll have you whipped for disobedience.”

That got them moving. Wrapping her cloak about her, Tsarmina settled against the base of the tree, listening to Brogg and Scratt crashing through the underbrush and dreaming of her certain victory on the morrow.

* * *

“Rowanoak!” Bella greeted her friend with a tight hug. Rowanoak returned it with her full strength, and they pounded at each other’s backs, wearing wide smiles. “And Ballaw de Quincewold, too! Still kicking, you old thespian? When Timballisto came running in, gasping about a band of players, I hoped it might be you all,” Bella said, pressing Ballaw’s paw between her own and smiling around at the company. “You’ve expanded your ranks since I last saw you. I was expecting a few more seasons to pass before you ventured this far south again.”

“That may be, but it was fortunate for us that they did so,” Germaine said from her place near Rowanoak’s knee. Bella’s smile softened, and she clasped the venerable Abbess’s paw gently, mindful of her comparable frailty.

“Abbess Germaine, my old friend,” she greeted, kneeling to be on a level with the mouse. She bent her head to receive an affectionate benediction to her brow, and returned the gesture, pressing her snout to Germaine’s cheek. “This is an unexpected pleasure indeed. But come in, come in! I’d be a truly terrible hostess if I didn’t at least give you food and drink while we spoke.”

She led the Players and the Brothers and Sisters of Loamhedge into Brockhall, down the long and twisting passage and into the main hall, where the roots of the oak that sheltered Brockhall formed the beams of the ceiling and the uprights of the walls. It more resembled a cavern than anything else, and the mice settled themselves about the huge hearthstone with relief.

Bella noted Sayna standing in the corridor leading to the kitchens and beckoned her over. She left off her headcount and joined Bella with a curtsey to their new guests. “Rowanoak, I don’t know if you and Sayna met properly the last time you were here.”

“Oh, I remember her, never fear,” Rowanoak said, offering the mousewife her paw and an amused smile. “Mostly I remember her dragging her husband off to rest, so he wouldn’t spend the whole night arguing with Barkstripe by the fire. I am glad to see you well.”

“As well as can be expected, Rowanoak,” Sayna said. “I’m glad to see you’ve escaped the Kotir patrols. Were they very close to catching you?”

Ballaw chuckled. “Marm, we had to run for our lives as fast as the winds. But how did y’know?”

She winked at him. “A magician never reveals her secrets, sir, something I’m sure you know very well. I remember your tricks, Tibbar.”

Ballaw laughed, and made a gallant, flourishing leg. “I concede, m’lady. You’re in the right.”

“Thank you, kind sir,” Sayna curtseyed playfully in return, eyes twinkling with good humor. “But in truth, it’s simply the fact that I don’t see Martin or Gonff among your number, and I know my son. He’d never retreat from a battle, or let his friends fight for him while he escaped. And where one scamp is, the other will be.”

“Yes, quite the double act, those two,” Germaine said fondly. “I don’t think I’ve seen any in our order smile so freely in the two seasons since we’ve left Loamhedge…” she trailed off into a sorrowful silence.

Bella rested a heavy paw upon Germaine’s back, sensing some catastrophe. “What has happened, my friend?”

“You have heard of the great sickness spreading to the south?”

“We have heard some from what few travelers will pass through Mossflower Woods,” Sayna said, taking the Abbess’s paw between her own, stroking the back of it with compassion.

“I hadn’t thought it would reach so far as Loamhedge,” Bella admitted.

Germaine looked up at her, tears pricking the corner of her eyes. “Everything it touched withered and died. I could do nothing…!” Sayna pressed a folded handkerchief into her paws and sat beside her, soothing her as she cried.

“Try to forget it, if you can,” Bella said quietly. “You and your order are free to call my home your own, as long as need be. And please don’t protest or thank me. You opened your doors to me many seasons ago, when I was young and liked to wander.”

The Abbess smiled. It wavered, but held. “I will at least thank you, Bella. You are a good friend.” She wiped her eyes one last time with Sayna’s handkerchief, and returned it to her. “I will also assure you that, peaceful though we are, we shan’t be a burden in your struggle against the wildcat. We are a helpful and a healing order, with many of our number trained and experienced in the medicinal arts.”

Bella bowed her head in gratitude. “Thank you, Germaine. You’ve indeed come to us at a perilous time, though I wish it was not tragedy that had sent you here.”

“I say, Rowanoak,” Ballaw said, nudging the badger in the side, “Shall we lend a paw, too? Onwards an’ upwards? Bally nuisance, a wildcat trying to lord it over good creatures like this. I know we couldn’t do much in the Northlands, but—”

“We’ll discuss it with the rest of the troupe later,” Rowanoak decided. “I certainly plan to, and it sounds as if you do as well, but they should be allowed to make their own decisions about it. We’re performers, not warriors, after all.”

“Has there been trouble in the Northlands?” Bella asked, concerned. She’d traveled far and wide in her day, and had friends scattered all over.

“Trouble in th’ Northlands, trouble in th’ Southlands, trouble t’ th’ east an’ west, too,” Ballaw grumbled. “Travel is becomin’ a dangerous business, old gel! No doubt, we’ve suffered the slings and arrows of misfortune,” he finished, long face pulled longer in a pitiful expression, his ears drooping.

“Corsairs and searats, for the most part,” Rowanoak explained to Bella. “They’ve been getting bolder and bolder, raiding further inland for booty and slaves. And there’s been a few vermin warlords setting themselves up as tyrants and rulers, not to mention bands of mercenaries willing to sell their skills to these would-be despots.” She shook her great head despairingly. “We traveled down the eastern coast to Southsward, only to run into the fevers and plagues spreading there. That was when we met the Mother Abbess. When we discovered we had a friend in common, we decided that the best thing we could do was to go towards Mossflower, and make sure Abbess Germaine and her order arrived safely.”

“And we’re very lucky they did,” Germaine said, patting Rowanoak’s paw. “I admit, we were a bit lost before we happened upon their cart.”

Ballaw cleared his throat. “Speakin’ o’ which, Bella, marm, who do I need t’ talk to to, ahem, arrange for some goodbeasts t’ retrieve our cart?”

“I suppose that would be our Quartermaster Sergeant,” Bella said.

“Ah, yes. Of course. And who would that be?”

Sayna saluted and hopped to her feet. “I’ll have to arrange a hiding place for it first, Master de Quincewold, but we ought to be able to send a detail soon.”

“Thank you very much, m’lady. Or should I call you Sergeant?”

Bella chuckled. “She answers to both at this rate. Though I’m surprised you left that cart of yours behind! It’s been backwards and forwards through fire and swamp, by my understanding.”

Rowanoak chuckled. “Yes, well, talk to Martin about that.”

Ballaw sniffed, mock offended. “Stubborn creature, wot? Doesn’t understan’ the importance of a stage to an actor.”

“Sensible, though,” Rowanoak admitted. “The cart would have been too easily tracked, and hauling it through the underbrush would have slowed us down. On the open moors up north, or the plains to the south, it might have been a different story, but in these thick woodlands?”

Sayna shook her head. “And once Gonff turned his silver tongue to the idea, it was over. Those two. Sensible as they may be, Martin can be as stubborn as a rock.”

“Aye, just like his father,” Bella said. “ _And_ his mother, now I think of it.”

Trying not to smile, Sayna gave Bella a mock arch look as their new friends laughed.

* * *

Silence reigned under the surface of the river. Icy cold and wet, the water roared past Gonff’s ears. He had swum in the River Moss before, but splashing and larking about was a far cry from being dragged by the scruff of his neck, fearing for his life. The chaos of the battle seemed far distant, like a dream, or a story of something that happened to some other beast. Gonff concentrated upon holding his breath, trying to convince his lungs they didn’t need the air they longed for.

It didn’t work. Panic began to set in, and Gonff wriggled, reflexively opened his mouth only to inhale water rather than air. He was dangerously close to passing out when at last Root broke the surface and tossed him on the bank like so much dirty laundry. Gonff gasped, water spewing out of his mouth as he coughed. “Root, ye great, dense streamdog—ugh!” he sputtered, rolling onto all fours and shaking as he coughed again. “I’d swear ye were trying to drown me! Did ye take the long way ‘round on purpose?” He worked his mouth, and spat. “Have I got all the river water out o’ me? Yuk!”

Root pounded on his back, and Gonff started coughing again. “Hoho, little thief, stealing all our water like that. Yore all right, scallawag, c’mon up.” He heaved Gonff upright, and helped him steady himself. 

They were in Camp Willow, near the mouth of the tunnel system and still on the sandy beach of the bank side. Most of the crew were slipping in and out of the water, frolicking about. Gonff had to wonder if they were as relieved to be alive as he was. Martin was shaking himself off on the sandy bank nearby. Gonff chuckled at the way his fur bunched and stuck out, though any humor vanished the moment they both caught sight of Timballisto.

“Timbal!”

“Timballisto!”

They rushed to their friend, who lay limp and unmoving on the sandy bank. Bula, who had towed him through, was already pushing at his chest, until he came alive with a choking cough, immediately rolling onto his side. “There ye go—sorry ‘bout that,” Bula chuckled, patting the mouse roughly on the back. “Guess I didn’t give ye quite enough warnin’. Bit silly o’ ye to go breathin’ water though, eh, TB?” Timballisto groaned, spitting out water and pawing at his mouth.

“All right, crew, call muster,” Skipped said, waving a paw to get their attention. “Everyone here? Who’ve we lost?”

Four otters had fallen in the skirmish against Tsarmina’s forces, but no one could account for the whereabouts of Spring, a young female. A woodland orphan like Gonff, she had been taken in by Skipper and his crew several seasons prior, and was a friendly, playful soul. All the crew were worried at the thought she may be lost or captured.

Skipper sent out a pair of veteran scouts to comb the bank for Spring, and settled the crew in for the next few hours. A fire was made and a quick meal put together from supplies kept on site—mostly hard, preserved rations like dried fruit and cheeses. Martin, Gonff, and Timballisto kept close to the fire, toweling themselves dry while they waited for news of Spring. Gonff eyed Martin with concern. He was quieter than usual, his eyes distant. Gonff was about to ask whether he was all right when he spoke.

“I’m glad the both of you are safe,” he said, reaching over the fire to clasp both their paws. “I’m not sure what I’d’ve done if either of you had fallen. You’re not hurt?”

Timballisto shook his head. “Nay. Well, naught but my pride,” he admitted with a rather rueful smile. “I tripped over myself in that charge. Narrowly avoided getting trampled, but live and learn.”

All three laughed, the solemnity after their first major battle ebbing slowly away. “Who d’you reckon got off that shot on Tsarmina?” Gonff asked. “I hope her ears are still ringin’, that was the best thing I’ve seen all season.”

“Skipper,” Martin said promptly. “At least, that would be my guess. Though I’m surprised at you, Gonff,” he added, a smile sneaking across his face. “I’d have thought that the Lady Columbine was the best thing you—” He didn’t get a chance to finish his sentence before Gonff had tossed his damp cloth at him, blushing so hard his nose went dry.

“Martin, matey, you are my brother and I love you, but if you finish that sentence I will be forced to declare war.” 

Timballisto looked from one to the other and sighed. “Do I _want_ to know?”

Fortunately for Gonff, any further discussion was interrupted by the reappearance of the scouts, Duckweed and Streamer, bearing an injured Spring between them. She had been shot during the crew’s escape, and made her report to Skipper. Timballisto hurried forward to bathe and apply a poultice to the wound. Luckily, she wasn’t badly hurt, and already finding the good fortune in her predicament.

“I didn’t swim away for fear of leavin’ a blood trail in the water, so I only swam a little ways away, just until I was out of sight. I hid under the bank, slapped a pawful of river mud on the wound to stop the bleedin’, and lay still. I was close enough to a pair o’guards they might’ve reached out and touched me if they’d known I was there. From the sound of their gossip, their crew’s not plannin’ to move from the bank any time soon. The cat’s sent back to Kotir for somethin’ they called the Gloomer, though I don’t know what that is.”

“Well done, lil’ matey Spring,” Skipper said, patting her shoulder gently. “Get some rest and some food into ye while ye can. Ye did good, so don’t fret yore pretty lil’ head anymore, Old Skip’ll take care of it.”

“The Gloomer,” Root said, striking the sandy ground of the cave with one paw. “Ha—we ought to have seen that comin’. What’ll we do now, Skip?”

Skipper cast his eyes over the assembled otters and the three mice, and grinned. “Ho, don’t fear, mateys. Get some food into yoreselves, and rest for a bit. I’ve got an idea that’ll pull the cat’s tail good an’ proper.”


	9. Chapter Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta-ed with great patience by Raphcrow. Many thanks.

Tsarmina was awake and waiting impatiently by the time the Gloomer arrived on the banks of the River Moss with Brogg and Scratt in tow. The pair were struggling to control the great beast, paws digging into the loam and mossy ground of the woods, bodies arched back with the effort. Fortunata led the way, skittish and jumpy and looking over her shoulder so frequently the queen was surprised that they’d arrived at all.

There was reason enough to fear. The Gloomer was a brute of a water rat Verdauga had captured and imprisoned underneath Kotir long seasons ago. In the dripping, echoing cavern beneath the fort, the Gloomer had lurked like the worst stories whispered by pirates, of the monsters of the deep, the hulking beasts that hunted in the black unknown. What fur he still had was black, gray, and waterlogged, his skin like slick, stained leather, his teeth yellowed and gnashing with gluttonous, disgusting appetite, his eyes sightless, bulging in his skull. The Gloomer heaved on his leads, this way and that way, almost pulling all three of his handlers off their feet. He sensed the waters of the river and strained towards the promise of his usual territory.

Tsarmina grabbed a long dagger off one of her soldiers, ignoring the way the Gloomer’s blind eyes followed her, tracking her movement by sound. She crouched over one of the dead otters and sliced deep into its side, coating the blade with dark, sticky blood. Careful to stay out of reach of the Gloomer’s gnashing teeth, Tsarmina brandished the bloodied dagger under his nose for several seconds until she could be certain he had gotten the scent. She sprang back just as the Gloomer lunged for the dagger, laughing.

“Hahaha, what I wouldn’t give to see those poor otters’ faces once they realize you’re coming for them,” she said, lips pulling back into a fearsome, wicked grin. “Fortunata! Brogg, Scratt! Let it get close enough to the river.” She stepped back and allowed the small party to pass, keeping her distance. Tsarmina did not fear the Gloomer, but neither was she a fool.

She lifted both paws, taking another step back for good measure. “On my mark, then,” she said imperiously. The trio scrabbled in the spongy turf, trying to avoid being dragged headlong into the River Moss.

“Milady,” Fortunata said, her voice trembling with nerves, “Hurry, or it will have us in the water!”

Tsarmina ignored her. “When I drop my paws, you’ll—”

Too late. The lead Fortunata had a stranglehold on snapped, and Scratt and Brogg were pulled over onto their faces and dragged through the bank mud before gathering their wits enough to let go. The Gloomer entered the water with a noisy splash, sending a wave of muddy water over the two hapless sergeants.

The Gloomer circled in the water for several minutes, Tsarmina watching it impatiently. Finally and without warning, it ducked underwater, making its way upstream so swiftly a small v of water trailed behind it.

Kotir soldiers dashed along the bank, cheering it on.

“Look, he’s after something!”

“Hey, Gloomer, eat an otter for me!”

“Don’t eat them, kill ‘em all!”

“Rip ‘em to bits!”

One ferret a bit farther ahead than the rest skidded to a stop. “Something’s bobbin’ in the water, mates! I think it’s an otter!”

The soldiers bunched up together at the curve of the bank, cheering as the Gloomer reached the dark shape. Tsarmina caught up and forced her way to the front, elbowing aside a stoat who didn’t move quickly enough for her liking. It only took a glance to see what the Gloomer had between his claws, teeth ripping savagely at its belly.

It wasn’t an otter. It wasn’t even living. It was a patchwork doll, roughly shaped like a cat, with a badly painted, comically angry face painted upon its head and a stiff bark crown attached to its head. It was mostly stuffed with dead leaves, but for its torso, where Tsarmina could see chunks of fish meat and guts, mixed with some dark fluid that was quickly dissipating in the water.

Bait, a false trail, they’d been tricked! Tsarmina shrieked fury at the sky, lashing out around her indiscriminately. The soldiers trampled over each other in their rush to get away from the suddenly furious queen.

“Idiots! Buffoons! Traitors! You’re cheering the destruction of your queen! That—that disgrace, that monstrosity—ohhh, when I get my claws into those woodlanders, I’ll, I’ll—”

“Like it, cat?”

Seething, Tsarmina glared across the river. There was a squirrel sitting in the tree right across the way, just above where the Gloomer was dragging the effigy under the waves. She was smirking, bow held loosely in one paw but with an arrow notched to the string. The lightweight tiara on her head glinted in the setting sun. “I rather liked the touch of mixing a bit of otter’s blood with the fish guts,” she continued. “More than enough of that to go around, given how many you wounded.”

“Archers!” Tsarmina yowled, claws flexing as she wished fervently she’d thought to keep her own bow in hand. “Archers, where are my archers!?” The archers fumbled to string bows and notch arrows.

The squirrelqueen watched this with disdain. “You’re not going to win this, cat,” she said. “We’re dug in, here to stay. Before much longer, you’re going to be just like that one—fish bait!”

“ _Fire!”_

A volley of arrows sailed across the river, but the squirrel was off and away through the treetops long before any of them landed.

Tsarmina seethed on the bank, staring blindly at where Gloomer and the doll had disappeared, scratching at her fur and breathing heavily. Behind her, the soldiers milled about, looking at each other and shuffling their feet. You could never quite tell what Tsarmina might order them to do next, especially when she was in a temper, and she was certainly in a temper now.

“Fortunata!”

The vixen winced, and cursed her luck. She slunk closer to her mistress. “Yes, milady?”

“I’m leaving half a platoon here with you—you ought to have enough brains between the lot of you to figure out how to get that thing out of the water and collared again. I don’t care how you do it or how long it takes, but _get it done_.”

Fortunata swallowed. “But—recapturing the Gloomer, milady? Only your father has ever—”

Tsarmina whirled on her servant, dragging her to her face by her cloak. “Do not tell me what my father has or has not done,” she snarled. “I said, _do it,_ even if you have to use yourself as bait to get it out of the river. Is that understood, vixen?”

Gagging and choking at the tight grip, Fortunata nodded frantically. “Of course, your majesty! I understand you perfectly!”

“Good.” Tsarmina released her, and turned, striding away from the river, her cape swirling behind her. “Scratch, half your squad will stay here. The rest of you will accompany me back to Kotir.” She narrowed her eyes, stalking through the deepening shadows of Mossflower Woods. “It seems we will be teaching some rather _painful_ lessons when we return…”

* * *

Brockhall was situated deep in the eastern stretches of Mossflower Woods. The sett had been built by Bella’s ancestors in days long gone from living memory, and thought and foresight and good woodland common sense had all been poured into its construction. A venerable oak of immense girth, wide enough that six badgers holding paws couldn’t encircle its trunk, stood sentinel over the entrance. Brockhall itself was made of several branching tunnels, scaled to be comfortable to even the greatest of badger lords. Infirmary, dormitory, kitchens, spacious storerooms and larders, a main hall large enough to accommodate the main Corim and most of their allies, and enough small sitting rooms that even with Brockhall filled to capacity, a solitary creature might slip away for a few moments of peace.

As Verdauga had sickened and Tsarmina dug her claws in, woodlanders had trickled away from the settlements. Bella had immediately opened her home to them, offering them sanctuary and a place to nurse the budding resistance. The Corim had been established within those hallways, had drilled and prepared in the glades and clearings about the ancient oak.

The otter crew returned in the late afternoon, a few hours after the Loamhedge mice and their Player guides had reached Brockhall. Upon hearing Skipper’s report, Lady Amber immediately swung off through the trees, accompanied by a pair of her squirrels, to keep an eye on Tsarmina’s forces and mark their movements. More personally, Lady Amber wanted to see the cat’s face when her monster water rat found the effigy Skipper had gleefully planted.

It was too late to welcome their new friends in true and generous woodlander style that night, so Bella had suggested they defer the feast until the next day. The suggestion was gratefully accepted by all but the littlest ones, who hadn’t been on the adventures of the day and were not (they protested through huge yawns) remotely tired.

The next morning dawned peaceful and cool, the early morning mists twining about the roots of the trees, as if the forest itself were aware of the upcoming festivities and trying on gauzy scarves in anticipation. Since before dawn, the cooking and baking in Bella’s well-appointed kitchens had filled the halls and surrounding woodland with tempting aromas. Abbess Germaine presided over the kitchens, welcoming any and all who wished to attempt some favorite family dish, or experiment and try something new. Sayna and Goody had busied themselves with finding bunks for the new arrivals, and ensuring there would be enough plates, cups, drinks, and space for everyone. Skipper’s crew brought two good-sized perch from the river; Amber’s squirrels contributed several loaves of nut bread and early summer fruits; the Stickle hogbabes had banded together with their father to decorate a great spongecake, though the result looked less like a cake and more like some sticky, mud covered concoction. Ballaw had snuck a slice of it and promised that, in spite of its appearance, it tasted divine, baked as it had been by Goody. He’d then been summarily banished from the kitchens, and conscripted by Goody to help her decorate the hall and lay the table.

Martin, Gonff, and Timballisto were kept running about, taking messages from Germaine in the kitchens to Sayna in the dormitories to Bella in the cellars to Goody in the main hall.

“Mum, Goody asked if you think the ivy or the lilac will be better to drape the mantelpiece with.”

“Tell her the lilac. I think it’s more spring, though some ivy might offset it nicely. Would you ask Bella if we can make up some beds in the eastern sitting rooms? I fear we may run out of space in the dormitories.”

“Miz Bella, Abbess Germaine needs more honey for ‘er baked chestnuts. ‘Ave ye got any stored down here?”

“There should be a comb or two in the earthenware jar in the corner, there. No sneaking tastes, Gonff, save it for the cooks! And find out from Germaine if she needs any more cider while you’re up there!”

“Goody, Bella wanted to know if you had plans for the centerpiece?”

“I thought a few small posies would be lovely, but make sure you ask the abbess if there are any special dishes she wants to display. Oh, and Timbal! If you see that husband of mine, tell him to take the kids out to gather flowers—it’ll keep them all busy and out from underpaw.”

As the day wore on and the sun passed its zenith, the scattered creatures all gathered in the main hall, finding space for themselves on the long benches, the hearth, the floor, even the shelves lining the rustic baked clay walls.

“Quiet, everybeast, please!” Bella called, raising her voice to be heard over the crowd. “The food will be served after the talking has been done!” Slowly, the hubbub subsided, helped by the promise of the upcoming food.

“Thank you,” Bella said, standing near the hearth and smiling benevolently around at her friends. “Welcome, one and all! Welcome! First, there have been a few new developments in the struggle against Kotir, not least of which is the arrival of some new allies. First, the Rambling Rosehip Players have agreed to lend their abilities to our cause. I’m sure—”

Ballaw was up on his feet before Bella had finished her sentence. He made an elegant leg to the three corners of the hall in proper theatrical fashion, and drew himself up. Ignoring the titters, he declaimed, “Good creatures of Mossflower, my ‘eart was moved deeply by your plight. Though we be only travelin’ actors, rest assured that our skills are many an’ varied, and we shall dedicate them all to your cause! Nay, we are willin’ to lay down our very lives—yowch!” He rounded on Rowanoak, who had tweaked one of his ears. “Rowanoak, m’ friend, y’don’t interrupt an actor in th’ middle of a monologue.”

“I do when it means you’ll be nattering on for another quarter hour while the food in the kitchens goes cold,” she said.

Ballaw’s eyes widened at this reminder. “Good lord! Ah, yes, ahem, a very good point.” He turned back to the hall to general laughter, and waved both paws. “So, er, thank you for your hospitality, Bella marm, and know we’re with you, one and all, wot?” This last was delivered with far greater speed, and Ballaw plopped back into his chair to ringing applause.

Vurg nudged Martin in the side and said, lowly, “There’s trouble brewin’, and no mistake. I wager by the end of the night those two will be in a full battle of ballad composin’, and lovin’ every second of it.” He nodded towards Gonff, who indeed looked delighted with Ballaw’s wit and eager to pit his own against it.

Martin glanced at his friend, and smiled agreement at Vurg. He would have said more, but Bella had waved for silence again.

“I would also introduce you all to Abbess Germaine, who has come to Mossflower Woods with the Brothers and Sisters of Loamhedge. I’m sure the Abbess, too, would like to say a few words.”

Germaine rose with a grateful smile. “Thank you, my old friend. My mice and I wish to thank all of you for allowing us to settle in your beautiful country and, more so, for making us feel so very welcome even at a time of great trouble for you. We are a peaceful order of builders and healers; please, feel free to approach us with your injured and ill, or simply fretful little ones. We will do our best to help. All we ask in return has already been given—namely, your friendship and companionship. Perhaps someday, when the shadow of Kotir has been banished from the land, we can speak of a greater peace, and how to preserve our legacy of security, safety, and settlement.”

Cheers and applause once again rang through the packed hall. Many creatures offered the Abbess promises of aid and welcome in the days to come. Martin’s ears pricked up at this idea of legacy, and he raised one paw to trace the fuller of the sword pinned at his shoulder. A legacy of security. a dream like that might change the world. If he could have some small part in building it…

Order was almost restored when a young squirrel piped up. “Caw, is that roast chestnuts I can smell?”

“Yes,” Abbess Germaine called back with a laugh, “With honey and cream made to an old Loamhedge recipe. I took them out of the oven myself. Is the talking done, Bella?”

“Nearly, Germaine. It’s been many seasons since I tasted Loamhedge roasted chestnuts. However, before the food is served, I would like to take a moment to recognize the courage shown yesterday by Skipper and his otter crew. They were able to buy enough time for the Rosehip Players and the Loamhedge mice to reach Brockhall safely, and certainly struck a hefty blow to Tsarmina’s pride.” There were snickers and smiles exchanged all around. The story of the decoy queen had been gleefully retold; by now everybeast knew it.

“However,” Bella said, tone turning solemn, “Four brave otters fell in the skirmish against the Kotir forces. It would be remiss of us to forget their sacrifice. To Alluvia, Rip, Rill, and Estun. A moment of silence for fallen friends.”

Silence filled the hall. There was a distinctly gruff sniff as Skipper wiped his eye. Martin stared down at his paw resting on the table. These four had been the first to fall in this struggle, yes, but they weren’t the only deaths that could be laid at Kotir’s doorstep. As much as Martin wished they might be the last, deep down he was a practical soul. He looked around at his friends, his family—Gonff, Skipper, Bella, Goody, Ben, Amber, Vurg, Sayna—and considered their faces, memorized their features. Seasons and fates, allow him to keep them all safe during this coming war.

“To friends, here and lost,” Bella said, raising a goblet in her paw.

“To friends, old and new,” the hall echoed back.

Bella sniffed deeply, then let out a breath. “Thank you, friends. Now, stay where you are. The food will be brought out to—”

Before she could finish, there was a commotion from the corner where most of the actors had congregated. The pretty young squirrelmaid Celandine had shrieked as if someone were trying to murder her.

“The floor is moving, oh, help, the earth is quaking! We’ll all be killed!”

Buckler, the solitary mole who travelled with the troupe, chuckled as Celandine was lifted bodily off the floor by Rowanoak. “Ho urr, missie, ’tain’t t’urth shakin’. That be molers loike Oi!”

Space was hurriedly cleared and a flagstone lifted from the floor. It took only a few moments for the soil there to tremble, before hefty digging claws broke through. They framed a gruff, whiskery dark snout, already turned up in a good-natured smile. “Good arfternoon to ‘ee, Bella marm,” Foremole rumbled, hauling himself out of the tunnel. “Sorry ‘bouten ee tunnel. Cooken smells roight noice.”

He popped out of the tunnel with a small shower of rich, damp soil, much to the little ones’ delight and Celandine’s dismay. A score and a half of grinning moles followed him, greeting their friends and quickly catching up on events. Buckler was quickly welcomed within the ranks of the Mossflower moles, particularly once they found his second cousin was Billum’s great-aunt. Martin and Gonff waylaid their mole-friend young Dinny, and regaled him with the tales of their recent adventures in turn, wrestling on the floor as they did so. It ended with both Martin and Dinny perched atop Gonff, chattering away.

“Where’ve you been keeping yourself, Dinny? It’s an age since we saw you!”

“Oi been keepin’ outten trubble, Marthen. Oi’m not liken you’s two, gettin’ catchered by ee cat an’ foightin’.”

“Then what have you been doing?”

“Tunnelin’ an’ buildin’ an’ such. Parten o’ Moledeep were gettin’ all a-tremble. Had t’go careful-loike to fixen.”

At that moment Gonff succeeded in rolling over enough to get his paws at Martin’s sides and heave him bodily off. “Let me up, mates! It’s time to eat!”

The humor of the situation and the delight of seeing more friends had put paid to the lingering solemnity in the hall. The food was brought out to sighs of anticipation and exclamations of delight. As well as the Loamhedge chestnuts (which Bella took a good portion of), there were oatcakes with cream, honeyed scones, blueberry and blackberry cobblers, celery and herb cheeses, acorn, oat, and barley breads. October ale, pear cordial, apple ciders, and fresh milk were all available to wash it down.

The Corim leaders had gathered near the hearth, their numbers augmented by Foremole, Rowanoak, Ballaw, and Germaine. Martin, Gonff, Timballisto, and Dinny all sat nearby—not officially members of the core council, but listening attentively to those who were.

“Now that winter has truly relinquished its grip, I think we can expect more of these skirmishes,” Bella said, shaking her great head. “It’s more important than ever that those woodlanders who can’t climb trees and swim rivers are given sanctuary here.”

“My squirrels spread the word as far and wide as we were able yesterday,” Amber reported. “There are some who either don’t want or need the offer, but most were grateful.”

“Yes, they’ve been trickling in all day,” Sayna said thoughtfully. “I’ve managed to find space for everyone, but we’re nearing capacity, Bella. We might need to seek some other asylum, at least to house non-combatants until the worst is over.”

“My crew can harbor in Camp Willow,” Skipper said. “Naught can catch an otter what’s in the water, and the camp’s only ‘alf a day’s march from Brockhall. Close enough, but it won’t strain yore resources, Quartermaster Sergeant. Keep the beds for those that needs ‘em. We don’t strike our colors and run at the first sign of trouble.”

“Nor do mine,” Amber broke in.

“None doubt your courage, Skipper, or yours, Lady Amber,” Germaine broke in diplomatically. “But it seems to me we’re jumping ahead a bit. We can make as many plans as we like, but unless we have a guess of what Tsarmina is planning, we’re limited in our movements. Acting is always better than reacting, and that cat is a canny one. If we can get ahead of her, all the better.”

“A spy network?” Rowanoak mused. “The idea certainly has merit…”

“That’s all well and good,” Martin murmured to Gonff, “But sooner or later we’ll have to fight. Tsarmina isn’t going to just leave, and Kotir won’t go away if we just close our eyes.”

Vurg had caught the commentary, and clapped Martin on the back. “Aye, sooner or later we’ll have to fight. But a forthright charge isn’t wise, not yet. If we can whittle down their forces, and dishearten them, we’ll stand a far better chance when that battle can no longer be avoided. Wisdom wins wars, not just great acts of courage.”

“Let us attend to one thing at a time,” Bella said, recalling the council’s attention. “I agree with Germaine. First, we need a good spy to keep us abreast of Kotir’s movements. Any suggestions?”

Ferdy and Coggs eagerly volunteered themselves, trying to look both fierce and stealthy. Though there were a handful of stifled chuckles and amused glances from the corner of the eye, Skipper and Amber handled them deftly, promoting the pair to Captains of the Home Guard, a title that, hopefully, would keep them at Brockhall and out of the woods.

Bella watched the pair of little hedgehogs rush off to make themselves badges, and shook her head. “Neatly done, you two,” she commented, raising her mug of ale in tribute. “But we still need an actual spy.”

Skipper tapped his rudder thoughtfully against the floor. “I’ve got a beast in mind, but give me time to approach ‘im ‘bout the job. He’d be the best cove for it, but he’s a mite shy of attention.”

“We ought to cast an understudy, in case he doesn’t accept, wot?” Ballaw said.

There was quiet around the hearth as the council thought, bringing up and discarding ideas.

“Could the squirrels…?”

“Risky. Possible, I grant ye, but risky.”

“I suppose it’s the same problem with the moles.”

“Urr aye, marm. Thur be gurt danger innit, but ’tis possible.”

“What of us players?”

“What, sail through the gates of Kotir and put on a show for th’ cat? Brave, I grant ye, but ‘ow much information would ye get doin’ that? Nay, friend.”

Gonff glanced at Martin, who nodded encouragement. “Best spy I know is Chibb,” Gonff threw out, loudly enough to catch their attention, as well as that of several nearby creatures.

“Chibb? He’s not one of us!”

“He’ll want payment.”

“I wouldn’t trust a robin.”

“I would,” Martin put in stoutly, defending his friend’s idea. “Chibb could get close enough to Kotir to hear whatever’s being planned, and fly away faster than any of us on foot. There’d be no trail to follow, either.”

Bella pounded on the arm of her chair until silence was restored. “A strong argument. And if he wants payment, so be it, we can pay him. I think it’s a good idea.”

“And there’s no reason we cannot use both Chibb and Skipper’s friend, if he proves amenable,” Germaine said sensibly.

“Hurr, a burd ’tis, we’ns say let Chibb be a spoiy. Save us’ns doin’ the job. Asoides, we doant ‘ave wingers to floiy wi’.”

There was still some desultory muttering, but when Bella pushed for a vote, it passed unanimously. Chibb it was to be, whether joined by Skipper’s friend or not.

Tomorrow, they would set out to recruit him.


	10. Chapter Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prostrate yourselves before Raphcrow, beta among betas.

For whatever reason, Argulor had returned to Mossflower country. No beast could say why he’d deserted his aerie in the mountainous Northlands, or how long it may be before he returned. A great, golden eagle of considerable age, Argulor posed a threat to soldiers and woodlanders alike. Though in the winter of his life—his eyesight failing, and rheumatism settling into his bones—Argulor’s strength and innate savagery had not deserted him. Staying near Kotir and the easy pickings of the parade ground suited him fine—weasels, ferrets, rats, and stoats all made good eating, after all.

A few seasons ago, he’d have spent his time floating on the thermals high above Kotir and Mossflower, watching for any telltale movement betraying some poor creature’s position. A few seasons ago, he’d have seen Tsarmina berating her forces as they stood in full kit and rock packs on the parade ground after their defeat along the river. A few seasons ago, he would even have seen the small party making their slow way through the south of Mossflower, laden with sacks of candied nuts to bribe a particular robin with.

A few seasons ago, yes, Argulor would have posed a new and terrifying threat to all creatures, regardless of their allegiance… sudden, uncompromising, unpredictable—Death itself on golden wings, a lightning strike from a clear sky.

A few seasons ago.

Now, Argulor spent his days in the high branches of the old trees, letting the sun soak through feathers and flesh. Kotir offered easy food; the spring offered easy warmth; what need had he to go hunting, when all good things came to those wise beasts who learned to wait?

* * *

The hollowed log that was the den of the otter known as the Mask was unlike the home of any other woodlander. Where most would have some woven cloth, or a babe’s charcoal drawing hanging upon the wall as decoration, Mask had several furs and tails, pieces of bark, twine, oddly carved chunks of wood… At first glance, it seemed either the den of a predator or a madbeast. But then, very few creatures entered the den.

Skipper Warthorn was one of those few. He gazed about the seemingly empty den, amazed as always at the things Mask found useful in his unique line of work. “Riverwyte?” he called cautiously. “C’mon, shipmate, I know ye well enough to know yore somewhere about.” A fox’s tail twitched, and Skipper prodded it, grinning, only to be disappointed when there was nothing behind it.

“You might know me, Skip, but I can still pull one over on you any time,” a voice spoke from behind him, and Skipper rounded to catch the slim otter up in a tight hug, laughing.

“That you can, brother, that you can.”

Mask pounded on Skipper’s back, gasping and laughing at the same time. “Let me go, you great lug.” They separated, still grinning, and clasped forepaws tightly.

“Where were you?” Skipper asked with the eagerness of a child asking after a magic trick.

The Mask laughed, and settled back in one carved chair. “Keeping myself behind you, twitching that old tail with a bit of string. I saw you coming through the woods and thought I’d have some fun.”

Skipper shook his head. “Strike me tops’l, Mask, but yore a clever cove and no mistake. How’ve you been keeping yourself?”

“Oh, well enough, well enough. Sometimes I’m a squirrel, sometimes a fox. Ha, I was even a half-grown badger for a season.” He chuckled to himself at Skipper’s wry skepticism, and winked. Turning his back, he made a few small, secret adjustments, and turned back. “Look, I’m a squirrel again!”

Skipper marveled. Where his brother had been—slim, gray-furred, with those oddly pale eyes—there was now, surely, an aged squirrel, from its bushy tail and erect ears, right to the two large front upper teeth.

“You’ll never cease to amaze me, brother Mask,” Skipper said quietly, clasping paws with the squirrel. “I don’t know how ye do it.”

“Oh, it’s no great thing,” Mask said modestly, spitting out the two false teeth and removing the ears. “This’s just a quick change to tease you. I'd be a more convincing treeflyer if I took a bit of time with it, but ah well. All a question of studying shape.” He unfastened the false bushy tail and set it to one side, settling back in his chair again. “But you’re not fooling me, Skipper Warthorn of Camp Willow. You’ve come for a reason, I know.”

“Aye,” Skipper admitted. His eyes drifted to where Riverwyte’s tail ought to have been, and jerked away. An otter without a rudder was a stranded ship at best, but Riverwyte had adapted as best he could after a pack of weasels had crippled him, even taking a new name. As much as Mask’s mastery of disguises, it was that inner strength and flexibility that Skipper would always admire and respect. And it was that the Corim and Mossflower needed now.

“I’d hoped t’keep the storm from makin’ landfall in yore harbor, Riverwyte,” Skipper said quietly. “But there’s none in Mossflower who can do what you can. I know you like yore peace, and seasons know you deserve it. But if you’re willing, the Corim could use your help.”

The Mask crossed his paws over his chest, his pale, flat eyes watching Skipper. Silence reigned in the hollow log. Outside, there was a distant splash, a fish surfacing, or a kingfisher catching its dinner.

Finally, Mask took a deep breath and shifted forward. He gave a roguish smile, the mirror of Skipper’s own. “When do I start?”

* * *

The return to routine after the battle on the riverbank did not come easy to Martin. His friends had no such problem, and found chores to occupy them without trouble. Timballisto and Fripple worked side by side with Abbess Germaine, updating the records and inventory within the infirmary, and learning all they could from her. The Abbess was a veritable walking library of experience and innovations in healing, and she and her order were eager to be of assistance in any way they could. Dinny found a fast friend in Buckler, and the actor was more than willing to swap singing tips for wrestling techniques.

Gonff found his way to the kitchens to help Goody bake in anticipation of the evening meal and the return of the delegation sent to bribe Chibb. He took the opportunity to sneak more than a few candied fruits in the process, but that was the risk Goody always ran when Gonff helped with her baking. The hedgehog wife had long developed quite the knack for catching him in the act, and it had evolved into a game in the family. Martin took no consistent side himself, sometimes distracting Goody and sometimes catching Gonff, and frequently switching sides with no warning.

Today, Martin joined them for a while, until the slam of a distant door, blown shut by the wind, startled him, and he’d dropped a (mercifully empty) mixing bowl. After helping to sweep up the pottery shards, Goody had sent Gonff for another sack of flour from the stores and pulled Martin aside.

“Goody, I’m sorry about the bowl—”

“It isn’t the bowl I’m worried about, Martin,” Goody chided, patting him on the head. “It’s you. In the name of spikes, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so jumpy. Worse than a bee sittin’ on its own sting.”

“I’m fine,” Martin insisted.

Undaunted, Goody countered the protest without breaking stride. “You’re restless and unsettled is what you are. I almost wish Amber and Sayna had seen fit to take you with them to Chibb. A long walk in the woods would ‘ave done you good.” She huffed, and took a step back to study him. “Go help Ben with the babes,” she said, face softening. “He’ll be relieved for another pair o’ paws, and they’ve missed their other big brother. Those four are enough to tire any beast out, bless them.”

It wasn’t impossible to argue with Goody, but it was ill-advised, so Martin left the kitchens behind in search of Ben and the rest of the Stickle brood.

He found Bella first. She’d settled by the hearth in the main hall with several rolls of parchment, ink pot, and quill, and was scribbling away industriously. She glanced up when he opened the door, and smiled. “Ah, Martin. Good afternoon.”

“Afternoon, Bella,” he responded. “I’m sorry for interrupting.”

“No need,” she said. “I chose to write here, after all.” She gestured with one paw at the massive hall, which stood empty for the moment but tonight would be filled to the rafters once again. “My study felt a tad too close today.”

Martin nodded. “Have you seen Ben? Goody sent me to help with the little ones.”

“No, I haven’t.” She put the quill to one side and gestured for him to join her. “But come, sit with me for a moment.” Martin sat beside her readily, glancing over the bark parchment curiously. “I’m trying to finally put the recipes I’ve collected over the seasons into some semblance of order,” she explained. “I’ve never claimed to be the most organized, but Germaine was hoping to try a chestnut and pear flan I mentioned once.”

“Chestnut and pear? Sounds delicious,” Martin agreed, unrolling one of the scrolls. “So these are all recipes you collected on your travels?” Bella had always been free with tales of her wanderings in earlier years, and he’d hung on every word. There had been many a night when he’d snuck back out of bed to sit in the shadows and listen to her recount some small adventure to Sayna, or Ben, or Skipper—some encounter only remarkable for having taken place in country far from Mossflower, in alien and strange landscapes that fired his imagination.

“Aye,” Bella agreed, pinning one scroll with a great paw. “That one I learned from a shrew I met early one spring, after I helped him free his log boat from river mud. Then there’s this one for hotroot soup I’ve been meaning to copy out for Skipper to toy with—it uses fish instead of shrimp, and a couple of other changes.” She chuckled. “I seem to have made quite a project for myself completely by accident.”

Martin laughed with her. “Well, I think the Abbess will be very grateful, as will Skipper.”

“Skipper spoke highly of you after that skirmish, by the way,” Bella said as she took up her quill once again. Martin looked up at her, but her eyes were on her pen and knife as she neatly flaked the dried ink off and rewet it. “You prevented at least one crippling injury, and when your staff broke, you didn’t even slow down. You adapted, and continued.” 

“What else could I have done?” he asked with some confusion.

Bella shrugged, smoothed the parchment with one paw and began to write again. “You could have run. You could have frozen, and so been killed. That you didn’t speaks well of those who trained you. That you feel the need to ask that question speaks even greater truths about you.” Martin frowned as he considered this. As much as he respected Bella, and considered her very sensible, sometimes her wisdom felt cryptic, rather than enlightening.

“What does it say about me?”

“That you are a warrior born, Martin, even if you are not yet a grown one.”

Martin drummed his paw against the edge of the table, turning this over in his mind. He wanted to be a warrior, yes, wanted to live up to his father’s legacy. More and more, though, he’d been trying to piece through what a warrior truly was. Another puzzle piece, then, to add to his carefully guarded collection, though this one raised more than one question. Adapting to circumstances, and continuing on—yes, he could see how that was part of being a warrior. But was that sudden red rage he’d felt also part? Or not? “Bella—”

“Oh, drat,” she said, frowning at something on one of the scrolls. “This isn’t what I wanted at all.” Bella replaced the quill in the inkwell and began sorting through the scattered parchment on the table. “I’m sorry, Martin, what were you going to ask me?”

“Nothing,” he said, gathering up the loose sheafs as she tossed them to one side. “It was nothing important. What are you looking for?”

Bella tapped one heavy claw against the scroll she’d been copying from. “I have two drafts of this hotroot recipe I mentioned, but I took the unfinished one by accident.”

“I’ll find it for you,” Martin volunteered, stacking the parchment neatly and putting it to one side. “I need something useful to do anyway.”

“Thank you,” Bella said, starting on a different copy. “It may take you a few minutes to find, but it should be on the shelf next to my desk.” Martin nodded, and excused himself.

Bella’s study was always an interesting place, piled high with papers and scrolls and books. She was in a perpetual state of ‘planning to organize it’, but that had yet to happen. Martin rather liked it; the study had character, and you never knew what you may turn up while looking for something else.

There were three shelves next to the desk, and Martin sifted through each them efficiently, unrolling scrolls to check their contents and replacing them, occasionally pausing to look at an old riddle or record more closely. Nothing about hotroot, though he did find an old squirrel recipe for hazelnut bread that he put to one side. Lady Amber might find it interesting, anyway.

Undaunted, and feeling now as if the study were challenging him, Martin turned his attention to the desk. Here were more records, letters, an account of an old mole story as told by Old Dinny’s father, a half finished herbarium with delicately detailed illustrations, a handful of more recipes, three more riddlesongs…

Something fluttered to the floor behind the desk, and Martin followed it, determined not to miss anything. It was probably some outdated personal reminder or somesuch minutiae but nevertheless, he would check. He snagged the escapee by one corner and peered at it in the gloom under the desk. Bring water to boil with added tubers, wild onions, hotroot to taste… “Got—yowch!”

Flushed with his success, Martin had straightened too quickly and banged his head on the underside of the desk. He winced and scrambled out backwards, recipe in paw. Ruefully, he sat and looked at the desk for a moment, rubbing at the ache with one paw. Not badly hurt, aside from his pride. Although now that he looked, there was something a tad odd about the desk.

Curiosity piqued, Martin studied it with narrowed eyes. It looked like a perfectly ordinary desk: heavy, dark wood, carved years before by some woodland carpenter. A squirrel, perhaps, or a mouse—those two species were usually pretty clever at carpentry. A space for a chair, with neatly arranged drawers to the right, a carved recess for writing materials on top. The fur on the back of Martin’s neck rose. The drawers, that’s where something was just the slightest bit off. The drawers, and where they met the flat writing surface. The more he studied it, the more certain he became. The panel above the top drawer was too tall—there was extra, unaccounted for space.

There was a secret drawer concealed within the desk.

Excitement rising, Martin pushed the loose papers covering the desk to one side, and ran his paws lightly over the woodgrain. Gonff had a softer touch, he’d have been able to pick up any aberration easily, but Martin was determined to solve this himself. At the first pass, it felt as if a long splinter had simply been gouged out of the wood, but by blowing gently along the grain, and bringing his eye close, Martin was able to make out a very, very faint joining. Heart pounding, eyes shining, Martin held his breath and tapped firmly upon the difference.

 _Clik._ A small plank above the first drawer opened a crack, and Martin pulled the secret drawer out completely. He’d half expected it to be empty, or perhaps to hold some hidden, forgotten treasure, but all that was within was a great deal of dust and a single, delicate scroll. Martin unrolled it, scanned the bold, antiquated script upon it, then read it again, hardly believing his eyes. Shaken, the young mouse sat upon the floor and read the yellowed parchment a third time.

> To the mountain of fire where badgers go,  
> The path is fraught with danger.  
> The way is long and hard and slow,  
> Through foe and hostile stranger.  
> The warrior’s heart must never fail,  
> Or falter on his quest.  
> Those who live to tell the tale,  
> First must turn the crest.

_The mountain of fire,_ Martin read again. He released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. It carried with it a single, awestruck word:

_“Salamandastron.”_


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost forgot to put this up today! Did not! Beta-ed by Raphcrow. <3

The dungeons of Kotir were deep, dank, and inhospitable. Cut off from light, fresh air, and anything green or growing, nothing would thrive. Very few beasts would even _live_. Those that did—well, they often went a little bit mad.

In the solitude of his cell, Gingivere frequently wondered if he too had gone a little bit mad. The guards who brought his daily bread and water never said a word to him, forbidden by his sister’s edict to acknowledge his existence. There was little for him to do but think. Think, and dream, though whether he slept or not became more and more difficult to know.

He’d figured out what had happened within an hour of the accusation, of course. The time in the cells had long blunted any fond feelings Gingivere had for his sister, proven all his excuses for her misguided.

Far above, there was a slam. Gingivere’s ears twitched, but he didn’t muster the interest needed to go investigate until the slam was followed by the distinct not-quite-audible sound of feline paws. Tsarmina, and approaching quickly. Curious, Gingivere rose to his feet and leaned against the cell door, watching as his sister moved through the dungeon, laughing to herself and making her plans aloud.

“Yes, perfect,” Tsarmina said, peering into each empty cell. “Yes, once Cludd, Fortunata, and Ashleg return with woodland prisoners, this will be ideal! And after that performance at the river, they know what will happen to them if they return without prisoners. Those woodland rebels will soon learn obedience down here—little food, no light, no hope! We’ll see how long their defiance lasts.” She giggled to herself. “Males in one cell, females in another, and the young ones in a special prison all of their own, where they can be heard, but not seen. Haha, yes, I must remember that one, heard but not seen…!”

She paused, catching sight of Gingivere’s haggard face watching her from the grate of his own cell. She slunk closer, her eyes narrowed in smug satisfaction. “Well, well, what have we here?”

The wildcat siblings had always been a study in contrasts, but never had it been more obvious. Tsarmina, decked in her finery, sleek, well-fed, eyes burning with a frenetic energy just short of madness. Gingivere, dressed in the rags of the nightshirt he’d been wearing upon his “arrest”, fur matted, gaunt and half-starved, his own eyes hot with an angry fervor just short of righteousness.

“I thought by now you had died down here, when I bothered to think of you at all,” Tsarmina purred, bringing her own face up to the grate, matching him stare for stare. “Oh, but cheer up, my one-time brother! There will be some company for you soon. I’m arranging for some new lodgers, you see,” she said, with another little giggle. “I’ll find you an even darker and deeper prison, so the noise won’t bother you.”

Gingivere blinked, but didn’t break eye contact, paws tightening about the bars.

Tsarmina bared her teeth at him, but was the first to look away, eyes cutting to one side. “Never fear, my silent, staring brother. Perhaps I’ll make other arrangements for you. A knife, perhaps, slipped between your ribs to deepen your sleep.”

“Or poison in my bread and water?” Gingivere asked, voice cool even as his gaze burned into his sister. Tsarmina twitched. “Murderer,” he snarled, low and resonant, the accusation like a funeral knell.

Tsarmina broke and ran, but Gingivere’s voice rang down the corridor after her. “Murderer! You killed our father! Murderer! _Murderer!”_

He stood staring at the bars long after Tsarmina’s flight had died away, teeth clenched in a feral snarl, a hateful growl rumbling deep in his chest. Slowly, Gingivere’s knees failed him, and he slumped slowly to his knees, claws dragging long scratches down the door as he sobbed. He knew the truth; he may not have killed his father, but he was far from innocent. He knew fate was punishing him for his willful blindness. What good was knowing wrong from right, if he didn’t then act upon that difference? He had always been sympathetic to the woodlanders’ cause—now, he actively supported it.

If ever he escaped, if ever he felt the wind again, Gingivere vowed, he would aid the woodlanders in whatever way he could.

* * *

With the new additions to Brockhall, mealtimes invariably felt like a feast. Every beast took advantage of Bella’s fine kitchens, serving truffles, tarts, turn-overs; soups, sauces, salads; crumbles, chestnuts, cordials; ales, apples, and anything else a creature might want.

Sayna, Amber, Columbine, and Billum had returned shortly before evening with good news; Chibb had accepted their bargain, and would spy upon the comings and goings of Kotir in exchange for payment in candied chestnuts. With great pride, Sayna recounted Columbine’s initiative and good sense in dealing with the pompous, nervous robin, offering him double his payment for any damages sustained by large birds in the course of the work.

Columbine glowed with pride at her praise, giggling as she admitted, “Well, I’d have offered him ten times the amount if I’d thought of it. If he did get attacked by an eagle, I doubt there’d be enough of him to come claim it!”

Martin nudged Gonff in the ribs and whispered, “Looks like Mum’s taken a shine to her. You won’t have any trouble welcoming her into the family, anyway!”

Gonff nudged him back. “You leave that to me, mate.” He bounced up to Bella and addressed her in too low of a voice for Martin to hear, though he did try. Bella laughed, but nodded agreement to whatever scheme Gonff had just proposed, and he returned to Martin with a larger-than-usual spring in his step.

Martin accosted him, eager for an explanation. “Well? What’s the plan, what are you doing?”

“Bella’s agreed to let me sing grace,” Gonff announced with a satisfied smile.

Martin whooped loudly at this, drawing some attention that neither of them cared about. “Yes! Perfect! What are you going to sing?”

“I’ll decide later.”

“When?”

“When I’ve stood up to do it, I suppose!” Gonff laughed. Martin joined him, knowing without a doubt that Gonff would do exactly as he’d said and also pull it off brilliantly. He always did.

“By the way, Gonff—I’ve got something important to tell you,” Martin said, catching Gonff’s sleeve and pulling him towards a quieter corner. “Not now, but later. It’s a secret. I’m going to need your help.”

“Of course,” Gonff agreed immediately. “I heard those two squirrelmaids with the Players are going to be doing some dancing or somesuch. We can duck out then.” They rejoined the rest, elbowing through the packed hall to find places.

“Have you seen Skipper?” Amber asked them as they passed. “It’s not like him to miss a meal.”

“Sorry, Lady Amber,” Martin shook his head. “I haven’t seen him all day.” Gonff shrugged an apology, and they left the squirrelqueen tapping one foot impatiently. There was enough space next to Sayna, Columbine, and Germaine to accommodate two more young mice, and they settled into place just as Bella rose from her chair by the hearth.

“A moment, please, for the grace,” she called, and nodded towards Gonff.

Pleasantly conscious of Columbine’s eyes on him, the plump little thief stood, and sang out boldly:

_Squirrels, otters, hedgehogs, mice,  
_ _Moles with fur like sable,  
_ _Gathered in good spirits all,  
_ _Round this festive table.  
_ _Sit we down to eat and drink.  
_ _Friends, before we do, let’s think,  
_ _Fruit of forest, field, and banks,  
_ _To the springtime we give thanks._

Applause mixed with the clattering of knife, fork, platter and plate. Gonff plopped back down in his seat between Martin and Columbine, and winked at the mousemaid, who looked appropriately impressed. “Good, eh?” he said with his usual lack of modesty. “That’s an ancient chant that has been sung through the ages. I composed it a moment ago for today.” He looked so very pleased with himself that Columbine couldn’t help but laugh along with him at that ridiculous statement.

Martin leaned over on Columbine’s other side to say, “You’ll want to mind yourself around Gonff. He’s not like the peaceful mice of your order.”

“Oh, surely he’s not that bad,” Columbine said, appraising Gonff from the corner of her eye, who preened.

Martin did his best to make his face as sincere as possible and ignore his mother shaking with silent laughter on his other side. “I mean it, Columbine! He’s our prince of mousethieves—he’d steal the whiskers from under your nose faster than you can blink!”

Columbine shook her head, clearly disbelieving. Sayna gave Gonff a quick wink, and contrived to jostle a goblet of wine with her knee. Gonff shot one paw out—coincidentally quite close to Columbine’s face—and righted the cup, saving Columbine from a stained habit. She smiled her gratitude at him.

Martin shook his head solemnly. “I’d count your whiskers if I were you.”

Startled by the suggestion, Columbine looked askance at first one, then the other. She even raised a paw to her face, before she huffed and smiled. “Oh, you two!”

“Oh?” Gonff produced two long, thin hairs with a flourish, much to her astonishment. “Then what are these, my wise beauty?”

“But—But I didn’t feel a thing!” Columbine protested.

“I’d be more surprised if you had,” Germaine said sagely, tucking into a good sized portion of the moles’ turnip’n’tater’n’beetroot, deeper’n’ever pie. “Those are two of Gonff’s whiskers.” She winked at the pair of young mice, who were clearly disappointed at having been caught out. “Though it was still a very clever trick. Well played, you two.”

Columbine didn’t seem any less appreciative after learning it was a trick, though, and would have likely said as much had not the doors of the hall opened at that moment and Skipper walked in, elbow to elbow with a half-grown badger.

Sayna laughed quietly, and tilted her head to murmur in Martin’s ear, “Lady Amber looks like she’s going to dent Skipper’s head with that goblet.”

Martin glanced across the hall to where Amber was sitting, glaring at Skipper. “She’s got a good enough eye to do it, too. Hope he’s got a good reason for being late—I think she was worried he’d gotten caught by Kotir.”

Bella rose from her chair next to the fire, greeting the unknown guest with courtesy, though curiosity sparked in her eyes. “Welcome, friend, and well met. Are you the beast Skipper mentioned, who might be able to help us?”

“That I am, marm,” the badger rumbled, ducking his head in deference to his elder.

“I hadn’t known there were any other badgers in Mossflower,” Bella said slowly. “Are you a traveler, then?”

Skipper banged his rudder against the floor with a bark of laughter. “That’s ‘cause he ain’t a badger, Bella,” he said with the excitement of a babe revealing a joke. “Marm, meet Mask, my brother.”

“You give away the game too early, Skip,” the badger said, shaking his head. Mask plucked off the slivers of wood that had widened and blunted his nose, then the longer splinters that had lengthened his snout. Accepting a cloth from Skipper, he rubbed furiously at the dark and light dyes he had used to stripe to his coat, and shrugged out of the bulky, cloak-like cape he’d modified to resemble a badger’s hoary fur. The tail was the last to go, and he bowed to Bella, and the rest of the crowd, particularly the Rosehip Players, who were cheering to the roof this demonstration of talent and skill. Ballaw was practically vibrating in admiration.

With a laugh of her own, Bella pounded the arm of her chair in congratulations. “Well done, remarkable! He is indeed an otter! Welcome again, Mask, and may your stay be a long and pleasant one.”

Ballaw had finally had enough and leapt the table in front of him, snagging a pastry from Rowanoak’s plate as he went. “Mask, m’boy, I’ve never seen the like. Ballaw de Quincewold, co-founder of the Ramblin’ Rosehip Players—have you ever considered a career in the theatre, sah?”

“Hoho, I might consider it after this bit of business with the Corim is done,” Mask said, shaking Ballaw’s paw heartily. “I’m a fair actor, and a decent hand with costuming.” This understatement was greeted with more good natured laughter.

The new otter was quickly settled with a beaker of hot-root punch and a bowl as the Corim and others peppered him with questions. Spike and Posy seemed to have taken a particular fascination with the otter, hanging off his knees and staring up at him in awe. “Do you really turn into other creatures, Mr. Mask?”

He was just as taken with the pair of hedgehog babes. “No, not turn into. It’s a trick, sort of. I just make myself look like them.”

“What others can you do, Mr. Mask, sir?”

“Oh, a fox, a squirrel, a hedgehog like you, even!” he chuckled, feeding them each an apple slice. “Having some trouble with otters, though. Funny tails, y’see.”

“Can you be a bird?” Spike inquired.

“Well, er, let’s just say I’m practicing that one,” Mask said as the adults hid smiles and fond chuckles.

“A stoat or a rat, though?” Posy persisted.

“No trouble there. It’s all a question of studying shape and practicing, really.”

Bella and Rowanoak exchanged looks of dawning comprehension, while Skipper stood beside the Mask, arms crossed and absolutely bursting with pride for his brother.

“You’re saying you could be a rat, or a stoat, or even a fox?” Rowanoak reiterated.

“Aye,” Mask said with a grin that promised more than a bit of mayhem within Kotir. “Takes a fair bit of acting and costuming to be a good spy. That’s why I’m here.”

“Brilliant,” Vurg said, eyes already alight with the possibilities. “Skip, if your brother is willin’ t’spy for us, between him and Chibb, I think the Corim’ve got the beginning of a network that could rock the foundations o’ Kotir.”

“That’s the plan,” Skipper said, his own grin matching Mask’s.

Seeing an opportunity, Martin caught Gonff’s attention and glanced at the door. They could slip out now while attention was on the Mask. Gonff excused himself to Columbine and slipped out after Martin. No one noticed.

On the opposite side of the hall, no one noticed Ferdy and Coggs doing the same thing.

* * *

The door hadn’t fully closed behind Martin and Gonff before the latter was asking questions, his curiosity piqued. “What’s goin’ on, matey?”

Martin pulled him into an empty sitting room and leaned against the door, eyes bright with excitement. “Take a look,” he said, pulling a bark scroll from beneath his tunic and pressing it into Gonff’s paws. “I copied it from a scroll I found in Bella’s study earlier today,” he explained as Gonff unrolled it. “The original was in a secret drawer in the desk—I’ll show you if I get the chance, you’d appreciate the craftsmanship more than I would.”

Gonff nodded as he scanned the lines. “A secret drawer? Aye, I’dlike to take a look at that. Odd, though. ’Tis a curious poem, but—”

“Salamandastron, Gonff!” Martin interrupted, unable to wait for his friend to figure it out himself. “ _Salamandastron!_ Don’t you remember? The stories Bella used to tell when we were small? ‘ _The mountain of fire where badgers go_ ’—the place of the dragons, where Boar the Fighter and Lord Brocktree went questing! It’s a clue to find the way to Salamandastron!”

Gonff’s eyes grew wider with each word that tumbled forth, and he read the poem again with new understanding. “Mate, do you know what that means?”

“We’re going to Salamandastron!” Martin almost danced in place at the idea. “If Boar is still there, we can convince him to come back, to help save Mossflower!”

“Ha, Tsarmina wouldn’t stand a chance against a warrior like Boar!” Gonff said, laughing gleefully at the prospect.

“And even if he isn’t there anymore, maybe there’s another badger who could help,” Martin pointed out. “Bella said fighting badgers have been called to the mountain for generations. Place of the _dragons_ , mate! Who knows what we’ll find!”

Gonff laughed and waved the parchment teasingly. “Whoa, matey, not so fast! We’ve got to solve this thing first.”

Martin nodded firmly. “Right.”

“And then we’ve got to figure out how we’re going to convince Bella and the rest that this is a good idea.”

“Right,” Martin said again, though he had every intention of going with or without the approval of the council. “Give it here again and let’s get started.”

Both mice bent their heads over the parchment, reading the riddle through once more in silence.

“Most of it’s a warning about how dangerous it is,” Martin said, running his paw down the lines before tapping the last two. “But this bit at the end…”

“‘ _Those who live to tell the tale first must turn the crest,_ ’” Gonff read aloud. “Rather ominous, don’t y’think?”

“I suppose so,” Martin said. “But knowing what crest the riddle’s talking about seems more important.”

The two friends stared at each other, not willing to be stymied this early in their quest. “We’ve got to think like badgers,” Gonff said slowly. “Boar followed these clues, I bet, and I’d bet they were left by some ancestor of his for others to follow.”

“The scroll I found was ancient, and covered in dust,” Martin said. “Aye, that sounds likely. So not just a badger, but a badger of the Brockhall family—”

The answer hit them in the same instant, and they spoke in chorus. “The Brockhall family crest!”

Clasping paws in excitement, the pair of them jumped up and down in the middle of the room, shouting over each other.

“That’s it! That’s got to be it!”

“The Brockhall family crest!”

“We’ve got to turn the family crest!”

The elation was slow to wear off, and the only thing that stopped the would be questers from dashing off to do just that was the realization that they had no idea where the crest might be.

“And,” Gonff said glumly, “We might be missed soon.”

“Then let’s meet here, tomorrow night,” Martin decided. “We can look for the crest all day tomorrow, and turn it after everyone else has gone to bed.”

“Sounds like a plan to me!” Gonff said, and then giggled. “Heehee, think of Bella’s face when we come show her the map to Salamandastron!”

“I always got the sense she wished she could have gone herself,” Martin said as they opened the sitting room door and walked back to the main hall. “All that wandering she did. I hope I get to travel that much, someday.”

Gonff slung one arm about Martin’s shoulders. “I’m sure y’will, matey, and I’ll be right beside you.”

“Of course you will,” Martin agreed. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Gonff stopped, just past the threshold of the hall, suddenly enough that Martin stumbled. “What? What is it?”

Laughing so hard his whole body shook and he had to lean upon Martin to stay upright, Gonff pointed at the hearth, where the leaders of the Corim were still gathered in deep discussion. Right above Bella’s head was a raised shield of carved wood. Emblazoned upon the shield was a great oak, identical to the one that hid the entrance to the sett, with a scroll beneath it, proclaiming “To serve at home or afar.”

“The Brockhall crest!” Martin whispered.

“Right where we left it to go talk about finding it,” Gonff said through giggles. “And surrounded by every creature in Mossflower!”

The ridiculousness of the situation washed over Martin, and the pair of them leaned against each other, propping one another up against giddy laughter.


	12. Chapter Twelve

Unfortunately for the would-be questers, several of the elders sat near the fire, sipping warm cider and discussing theories and strategies, old times and new. Martin listened closely to the proposed methods of getting Mask into Kotir without arousing suspicion, but idea after idea was rejected as either too tenuous or dangerous. Finally, it was decided that Mask would slip into the ranks of a returning Kotir contingent, and if Tsarmina didn’t send one out within the next few days, that Skipper, Amber, and Vurg would provoke her with a sally upon the main gates.

Still, the later it grew, the fewer excuses Martin and Gonff could offer to linger in the grand hall, and they retired to the dormitories, thwarted. Sometime tomorrow, the hall would surely be deserted, and they could tackle the crest then.

Breakfast came first, and with it a fretful Goody Stickle. Usually adept in combating her children’s messier impulses, Spike and Posy managed to mix cream, cider, and hotroot into their porridge before Spike upset his and she caught them at it.

Gonff and Martin grabbed two towels and helped her mop it up. “Thank ye, dears,” she said, tutting at Spike and Posy. “You two scamps, though, what were ye thinkin’, hotroot in porridge?”

“Mr. Skipper does it!” Posy protested.

“Mr. Mask, too!”

“Aye, and they’re both otters,” Gonff said, and flicked the towel so that it snapped at them. They giggled. “And otters eat so hot because they get so cold, spendin’ all their time in the water. You two ain’t otters, and you’ll just set your mouths on fire for nothin’.”

Goody nodded sagely, glancing around her as she did so. “Listen to your brother, you two.”

“I haven’t seen Ferdy and Coggs this morning,” Martin said, finally putting a guess to the source of her distraction.

“Nay, neither ‘ave I,” Goody admitted, and huffed a sigh, looking from one to the other. “They ain’t slept in their beds last night.” Her paws worried at her apron. Posy and Spike took bites of the remains of the doctored porridge and both went for the water jug, eyes streaming. “Asides from that, there’s two oatfarls, a good wedge o’ cheese and some of my best blackcurrant cordial missin’ from the larder.”

Gonff grinned. “That’s a full breakfast an’ no mistake. I’m sure they’re curled up asleep in some corner, Goody-Mum. They’ll wake up with stomach aches.”

“They’ll go bang one of these days,” Martin said with a laugh. “Maybe they’re off playing soldiers. We’ll help you look. Have you let Bella and my mum know? They can help organize a search party, if it gets to that.”

“Don’t go a-botherin’ your old ‘ead, m’dear,” Ben said, pouring two good sized bowls of milk for Spike and Posy, who were still trying to recover from their first taste of hotroot. “Those two are like good button mushrooms, they always turn up at a good meal,” he finished, chuckling.

Gonff slung an arm around Martin’s shoulders, saluting with his free paw. “We’ll start looking around outside. They’ll turn up before too long, don’t worry.”

Goody nodded along with him, though her clear worry didn’t abate. “I hope you two are right,” she said, paws knotting and unknotting her apron strings until they got stuck. “Oh, Ben, get up and go ‘elp, won’t you? I won’t be happy until I see their mucky little snouts again.” Untangling her paws, she went off to ask Bella for help.

Soon, dozens of creatures were abroad in Mossflower, all searching for the pair of wayward hedgehogs. Squirrels swung through the canopy, eyes on the ground below them, otters combed the stream banks, moles trundled through last autumn’s loam. Rowanoak and Bella remained behind in case Ferdy and Coggs made their way back to Brockhall, while Chibb and Ballaw (hares being natural runners) worked to keep each search party abreast of developments.

Fates and fortunes willing, they’d find the pair none the worse for wear.

* * *

As it turned out, Kotir soldiers had found Ferdy and Coggs first.

Startled awake in the early morning when Cludd’s patrol collapsed their tent, the brothers were trussed to a spear and slung between two soldiers before they were even awake enough to tell up from down. Terror gagged their mouths and stilled their limbs as effectively as the ropes they’d been bound in.

The next few hours were the most harrowing in their young lives. Upside down and slung from spears, the two brothers endured the march to Kotir, knowing they were in more trouble than they’d ever been in before—indeed, more than they could imagine. Questions and fearful surmises whirled through both young heads.

Ferdy wondered if his parents knew they were missing yet. Surely they did. Surely they’d send search parties. Coggs was more concerned with whether the Corim would organize a rescue, and trying not to imagine how upset Mum and Dad were. If they were crying, or if they were out in the woods, looking too.

By the time they were hauled into Tsarmina’s personal chambers, each had come to the decision to show no fear, so that the other wouldn’t be afraid. They lay huddled together on the floor, pain shooting through their bound paws. Above them, the wildcat sat in her carved wooden chair, and watched imperiously as Ashleg cut the ropes and the filthy gags. They didn’t move or even whimper as the circulation was restored to swollen limbs.

Cludd used his spearpoint to prod Ferdy, who squirmed away from it. “Huh, they look fit enough, m’lady. What ‘ave you got to say for yerselves, eh?”

Coggs rolled over so he was snout-to-snout with his brother, and said, “Don’t breathe a word, matey. We’ll be brave like Martin and Gonff. Brave and silent.”

Fortunata kicked out at the prisoners and immediately regretted it, having forgotten about a hedgehog’s spines. Young as they were, Ferdy and Cogg’s both were hard and sharp, and she cursed as she nursed her footpaw. “Benighted, blasted—ooh, that _hurt_ —”

Cludd stamped the butt of his spear against the floor, ignoring the vixen. “Silence, prisoners! Don’t you know you’re in the presence of Tsarmina, Queen of the Thousand Eyes?”

Heartened by Fortunata’s painful mistake, Ferdy curled his lip in defiance and spoke out boldly. “She’s no queen of ours! We’re woodlanders!”

The rest of the “interrogation” went about as well. Tsarmina tried to use their exhaustion and hunger against them, bribing the pair with food and rest, but made no progress. She was left with two sleeping baby hedgehogs on the floor, a ruined apple she’d embedded her claws in (in lieu of embedding them in said baby hedgehogs and losing a source of information), and absolutely nothing to show for it.

“I don’t see why you don’t just string them up and let them have a taste of your claws, m’lady,” Cludd said, prodding them again with the butt of his spear. “That’d soon get them to talk.”

“You _would_ think that, idiot,” Tsarmina hissed at him. “They’re woodlanders, yes, but they’re only babes. They’d die too quickly for torture to be effective.” She glared hatefully at the pair, arms around each other and snoring softly. “Still, there are two of them. I may try that if things don’t change soon… Hmph. Later. Take them away. We’ll leave them in the cells for the day and see if they’re not a bit more talkative tonight,” she ordered, flicking her paw in dismissal. “Now go—I need to think.”

* * *

The sun was approaching its zenith when the woodlanders regrouped in Brockhall. Grim-faced, Gonff tossed a blanket and an empty cordial jar upon the center table. “We found that in a clearing ‘bout halfway ‘tween here and Kotir. Tracks all over the place, and it stank of weasel and ferret. Big party, I’d say.”

“Is there any other news?” Bella asked, though she didn’t sound very hopeful.

“I sent Chibb to Kotir,” Sayna said quietly. “I’d hoped I was worrying for nothing, but he heard Tsarmina interrogating Ferdy and Coggs. They’re unharmed for the moment, but they’re certainly captured.”

Murmurs of consternation rippled through the gathered creatures. “Mates, it doesn’t bear thinkin’ about, those two pore little ‘uns in the vermins’ brig!” Skipper burst out, slamming his paw into the mantel.

Columbine slipped her paw into Gonff’s. “What’ll we tell Ben and Goody?” she asked.

Gonff squeezed her paw in reassurance. “Tell ‘em we’ll rescue them straightaway! That’s what we’ll tell ‘em!” he declared, loudly enough for everyone to hear.

There was a roar of approval.

Bella had to shout to be heard, and a badger’s shout is very hard to ignore. “Please, Gonff! Be sensible!” Eventually, the hall settled again. “Yes, the Corim will mount a rescue operation,” she said, glancing at the other leaders and receiving nods of agreement. “But we must plan carefully so that more prisoners aren’t taken, and more lives lost. We must _not_ run off and do anything reckless in the meantime.” She glanced at Martin.

“I haven’t done anything!” he protested.

“Yet.” Quiet laughter greeted Vurg’s dry comment, and even Bella was smiling in spite of the serious nature of the meeting. He continued on, looking at Bella. “All well and good to say we’ll rescue Ferdy’n’Coggs, an’ I’m all for it. But don’t forget, we need to get this spy business started, too.”

“Mask, brother?” Skipper asked.

Mask saluted with an almost lazy wave of the paw. “I’ve got one or two thoughts, Skip. I’m planning to slip in tonight—no, won’t say how, it’s safer that way for all of you. I’ll see which way the wind blows and figure out a way to get word back t’you through Chibb.”

Sayna nodded. “Having a contact on the inside would certainly help with any future escape attempt.”

“Then it’s settled,” Bella said, putting a paw down on the table firmly. “Mask will infiltrate tonight, and we can hope for some word—when?”

“Tomorrow night at the latest,” Mask promised. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I ought to get ready.”

“Mask, sah,” Ballaw said, hurrying after him. “Not to tell you how to do th’ job, but the Players and I… Well, we’ve come up with a little somethin’.”

Mask shrugged, and gave the hare a quick grin. “Why not? I’ll take a listen.”

They walked out of the room with heads bent, talking to each other. Bella looked at Rowanoak and raised both eyebrows, demanding an explanation.

She just smiled. “Don’t worry, Bella,” she said, looking rather pleased. “It’s a good idea and won’t impede Mask’s mission at all. Just a little extra, to keep the cat on her toes.”

Amber grinned. “Well, I can’t object to that.”

Bella shook her head. “Neither can I, as long as no one gets hurt from it.” She rose and began to shuffle to the door. “Sayna, come with me. We’ll have to break the news to Goody and Ben eventually, and it’ll be easier on them if it’s us.”

* * *

Of all the assignments given in the army, guard duty was the worst. Stuck on a wall all night, nothing to look forward to, staring out into the trees, and doing nothing but waiting for somebeast else to come up and take your place… If you were paired with a mate, it wasn’t so bad, sure, but if not, then it was practically the road to Hellgates.

Skinnose and Mangeface were not mates. They’d also been given a double shift by Cludd for starting a fight in the mess, and so were stuck on the wall top over the main gate, together, for the entire night. The only thing weasel and ferret shared was the righteous indignation of the unjust punishment though, typically, this did exactly nothing to reconcile them.

“Huh, it’s probably gonna rain,” Skinnose muttered under his breath, shifting from one foot to the other. “Cold, an’ wet, an’ hungry—if you hadn’t started that fight, we’d both be inside and warm right now.”

“ _I_ started it?” Mangeface growled, taking his eyes away from the treeline to glare at him. “Don’t talk stupid, _yore_ the one who kicked me leg. I was just defendin’ meself.”

“Me? Talk stupid? You _tripped_ me!”

“I never—”

Glaring at each other, paws clenched around their spears and ready for all the world to thwack the other with them, Skinnose and Mangeface were only distracted by a call from below.

“Oi! Lunk ‘eads! Open the gate!”

Startled, both peered down over the wall top. While they’d been bickering, neither had noticed a figure leaving the underbrush. It looked like one of their lot, though his armor was scratched and dirty and in general he looked as if he’d been dragged through a thorn bush backwards.

“Whaddya want?” Skinnose called down.

“What d’I want?” he demanded, waving both arms irritably. “I _want_ to get by the fire and warm up, idiot, and get some decent food in me for starters! Whaddya _think_ I want, a gilded invitation?!”

“You heard ‘im,” Mangeface said, prodding Skinnose with the butt of his spear. “Go down and open the gate.”

“Why do _I_ have to? _You_ go down, I’m not movin’—”

The weasel below danced in place in frustration. “I’ve been sneakin’ about that maze of trees since last night, an’ if one o’ you doesn’t get that gate open _right now_ , I’ll tell the queen you were sleepin’ at your posts when I came back!”

That got them both moving, and within a moments the small door next to the main gate was creaking open, the battered weasel limping inside, muttering under his breath as he went.

“Thorns an’ roots an’ that blasted eagle t’boot—I tell ye, mates, if I could pack it in an’ get out o’ here, I’d do it in a heartbeat. Not worth it, ’s just not worth it.”

“Huh, got that right,” Skinnose whined. “An’ us rank takin’ the blame when the captain does somethin’ stupid? ’S not fair!”

“All of Cludd’s lot got a half extra ration for dinner,” Mangefur grumbled. “Just for bringin’ in two spinebrats.”

“Cludd actually did somethin’ right?” the weasel scoffed. “Makes me wish I’d managed t’stick with his patrol, instead of slidin’ down a stinkin’ ditch.” He rubbed his narrow stomach. “Thanks, y’two.” He shuffled off towards the main door as the pair of guards returned to their post on top of the wall.

Boredom broken by occasional bickering settled back in before much long, and Skinnose and Mangeface soon forgot the minor diversion. It never occurred to them that they’d never seen the weasel they’d just let into the fortress—or that the weasel might not be a weasel at all.

Mask had made his first move into Kotir.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'ed by Raph, and many thanks to her.

With all the excitement of the day—Ferdy and Coggs missing, their capture confirmed, Skipper’s report of Mask’s successful infiltration—most of the Corim opted for an early night, which suited Martin and Gonff perfectly. Though just as exhausted, the two questers were impatient to test the Brockhall shield and, hopefully, uncover the map to Salamandastron.

Impatient or not, Martin and Gonff waited until past midnight before sneaking out of the dormitory. Neither wanted to get caught by Sayna, after all. A lecture would be just the beginning of their worries if she caught wind of their activities.

They had judged their timing well, though, and reached the common hall without incident. The night made the familiar space strange, echoing its emptiness and dark shadows filling every crevice. Martin lit two candles from the dimly glowing coals in the hearth, and set them upon the table. He and Gonff gazed up at the carved shield.

“I’ll climb up to turn it,” Martin whispered. “You stand watch, just in case.”

“Aye, aye,” Gonff said, tossing off a cheeky salute. “D’you think we’ll find the map?”

“I think we’ll find something,” Martin said. He scrambled up the wall and balanced carefully upon the wide mantelpiece. Gonff passed up one of the candles and went to listen carefully at the door to the dormitory’s corridor.

Martin inspected the crest. It was carved of oak, set into the rosy baked clay of the wall. A bit smoke streaked by seasons of fires, it was warm to the touch and distressingly solid. Martin pushed at one side, then the other, then pulled. “It’s not budging,” he called lowly to Gonff. “Any suggestions?”

“Here, matey,” Gonff said, and climbed nimbly up beside him. “Maybe you haven’t got the magic touch.” He made his own inspection of the carving, running his paws along the edges of the shield and scroll, tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth. “Good news, though—this is definitely the crest we’re after,” he reported. He rapped the carved trunk. It yielded a resonant _thonk_. “Thick wood, aye, but ’s definitly hollow, matey. Heat from the fire must’ve made it stick a bit, that’s all.”

“But you can get it open?”

Gonff winked. “Who d’you think you’re talkin’ to? O’ course I can. Watch.” Gonff had brought his thief kit with him from the dormitory on the off chance he’d need it, and he fished a piece of cheese wrapped in barkcloth out of the pouch now. He rubbed it along the edges of the crest. “Grease it up a bit, let it soak in—it won’t take long, the woods nice ’n’ warm.” Gonff wiped his paws on his jerkin and, after another few seconds, gave the crest a skillful twist. This time, it moved!

“Here, matey, lend a paw,” Gonff said. They jiggled and twisted and pulled the crest carefully away from the wall. The entire shield moved outward, until a wooden cylinder slipped free.

“Catch it!”

Martin had to brace the sudden weight of the shield against the wall as Gonff let go and dived for their prize. He missed. It clacked first against the mantelpiece, then bounced down to the floor. Gonff almost overbalanced to follow it down, but Martin shot out one footpaw and caught him in the stomach, kicking him back into safety.

The cylinder itself landed in Dinny’s hefty digging claws.

“Hurr, Marthen, Gonffen, what be’s goan’ on?” he rumbled, peering up at the pair of them in the gloom. Martin was still splayed against the wall with his front paws supporting the heavy carved crest and one footpaw pinning Gonff to the wall so neither would fall. Winded by the kick, Gonff was wheezing and trying to catch his breath.

Caught, the pair of mice glanced first at each other, then at the mole below waiting patiently for an explanation.

“Give us a moment t’ get down, Din,” Gonff said once he’d recovered. “An’ we’ll tell ye.”

It didn’t take long for the crest to be replaced and Gonff and Martin to be back on solid ground. Dinny listened with growing interest as the pair took it in turns to explain their quest. “So this’n’ll be the map of Sammerlandersturm?” he said, passing the cylinder to Martin. The three friends gazed at the case for a moment, all hoping the same thing.

“Well, only one way to find out,” Gonff said. He plucked it from Martin’s paws and upended it so he could peer inside with one eye. “There’s some parchment or other in here, mates, I tell ye that.” He had it out in a twinkling, and unrolled it on the table, weighing down the upper two corners with the candleholders. Gonff read the poem written upon it aloud.

_Boar is badger, named after wood,_

_Not after forest but trees._

_Where did you play on a rainy day?_

_Where did I eat bread and cheese?_

_Search inside, stay indoors,_

_Look up and find the secret is yours._

_Your castle, your fort,_

_Or so you thought._

_The way is in four trees._

_The way is in Boar in Brockhall_

_Under ale, under bread, under cheese._

Dinny shook his head. “Stan’ on moi tunnel, it do be a right ole riddle, zurrs.”

“It sure is, Din,” Gonff said. “Hey, Martin, what’re you doing?”

Martin was fiddling with the wooden cylinder, shaking it and tapping the sides. “I was listening,” he said. Some leaves fluttered out to settle on the table. “Look, there was something else in the case.” He stared at the leaves, hoping for a flash of understanding, but nothing was forthcoming.

Gonff sighed, and tapped the parchment. “Might be a clue to help us with this, I suppose. We might need it.”

“Aye,” Martin agreed wryly. “We thought we were looking for the map, but we just found another riddle. Where to start?”

“You’m allus start at th’ beginnin,’” Dinny said.

Gonff giggled. “A good point, Dinny me ole mate, though the beginning here is just nonsense.”

“ _Boar is badger, named after wood_ ,” Martin read again, slowly. “Odd to name a badger after wood.”

Gonff scoffed. “Huh, you’d think he’d be called Mossboar, or Boarflower, then.”

“No, wait, the next line—not after the forest, but after the trees. So it wouldn’t be about Mossflower at all, but a type of tree,” Martin said. “Maybe a Boartree is an old word for a certain type of tree?”

Dinny chuckled, shaking his head. “Oi bain’t never ‘eard of no Boartrees, nor oi ‘spect ‘as moi granfer.”

Martin shrugged. “Well, there’re elm, and sycamore, and ash, and all kinds…”

He trailed off. All three of them stood in silence, thinking, and slowly three sets of eyes turned to the old, wizened leaves lying next to the poem.

“The leaves!”

Dinny and Gonff swept them into the center of the table, and they turned them over carefully, inspecting each one.

“Oak, rowan—”

“Beech, and ash,” Gonff finished. “Huh, I’d hoped there’d be writin’ or somethin’ on ‘em.”

Dinny sniffed at them closely, and shook his head. “Bain’t nothin’ written anywhere, no.”

Martin arranged and rearranged them, turning them this way and that. “Rowan, oak, ash, beech… Beech, ash, rowan, oak…”

Gonff gave a laugh. “Give this one a try, matey—Beech, oak, ash, rowan!” he said, placing them in order. “There’s the answer for ye. Ol’ Brocktree must’ve been clever.”

Dinny shook his head. “Cleverer ‘en Oi. Wha’ ’tis it, Gonffen?”

“Take the first letter of each tree, beech, oak, ash, rowan. B, then o, then a, then r, spells Boar!”

“The way is in four trees!” Martin agreed, beginning to grin. “That _is_ clever. Well done, Gonff.”

“Heh, I’m a prince of leaf puzzle solvers, mateys. What else?”

“ _Where did you play on rainy days?_ ” Martin read next. “Boar the Fighter playing?”

“Ho aye, ‘ee must’ve played when he’m a liddle un.”

“Still. Where would a little badger play?” Gonff asked.

There was another general silence, this time for several minutes. It was finally broken by a huge yawn from Dinny. “‘Scuse Oi,” he said, and yawned again. “Oi only woke up t’get sum water from th’ kitchen.”

“It is late,” Martin said, reluctantly. He spread the leaves on the parchment, added his copy of the first poem, and rolled the entire thing up, sliding it back into the wooden case. “And I can’t think of where Boar might play. I think we ought to stop for the night, get some sleep, and spend tomorrow trying to find where Boar would have played as a child.”

Gonff nodded, though he looked almost as unwilling to give up now as Martin was, however sensible a suggestion. “Aye, fine by me. Dinny, ye’ll want to help tomorrow night?”

“You two bain’t goin’ nowhere without Oi,” Dinny said staunchly.

Martin and Gonff both grinned. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Dinn,” Martin said, clapping a paw to the mole’s shoulder.

“You’m better not,” Dinny informed them as they all shuffled off to bed. “Th’ two o’ you’n moice could use some good mole sense, save you’n a lotta trubble.”


	14. Chapter Fourteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mostly unbeta-ed because I am trash and didn't get it out in a reasonable time, but it was, at least, written. So it's a bit rough around the edges, and is more of a draft than others.

Mask had supreme confidence in his skills, but that didn’t mean he planned to take unnecessary risks. Listen to gossip, estimate numbers, sound the fortress for weaknesses, and above all else, keep his head down—that was the plan. Hunching his shoulders and bowing his head, Mask marched down the corridors of Kotir.

On one of the lower levels, he caught a snatch of singing and, curious, followed it to its source.

Three weasels, all still in their uniforms, had uncovered some long forgotten cache of rich red wine in an abandoned guest room, and were partaking heavily of their spoils. Already deep into it, they sang lustily, without a care for harmony,

_O if I feel sick or pale,_

_What makes my old eyes shine?_

_Some good October ale_

_And sweet blackcurrent wine_

_I’d kill a dragon for half a flagon_

_I’d wrestle a stoat to wet my throat_

_I’d strangle a snake, all for the sake_

_Of lovely nutbrown beer. . ._

One of the weasels, deeper voiced than the others, put a dramatic paw to his chest and echoed mournfully, _“Lo-hoh-hovely nuuuuuutbrooooown beeheeeer…”_

The other two cackled at this melodrama, falling on top of each other in their glee. “Good ‘un, that ‘un was great, Gobb, heeheehee.”

Mask joined in from the doorway. The group was slow to notice him, and slower to figure out that it might not be a good thing. Mask grinned as Gobb tried to nudge the almost empty flask out of the way.

“Shove off,” one of them growled, though he was so drunk he’d gone crosseyed.

Rather than leaving, Mask entered and closed the door behind him. “Only if you gimme some of the wine,” he challenged.

“Get your own, greedyguts!” Crosseyed said.

“What will ye give us for it?” The third said. This bargaining was met with groans of betrayal from the others, but Mask grinned wickedly.

“Yore still singin’ that borin’ old drinkin’ song?” he said, sitting down on his haunches. “I’ll teach ya a new one.”

The three weasels exchanged glances. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s not that one, “The Hedgehog Can’t be Bovered at All?””

“It’s not bovered, leaky brains, it’s—”

Gobb interrupted the bickering. “You’ll do my chore tomorrow, too, gottit?”

Mask narrowed his eyes, sensing a trick. “What chore?”

All three giggled. “Nothin’ too important,” Gobb said, trying to sound nonchalant. “Just gotta take the scraps outta the kitchen.”

“Well,” Mask made a show of hesitating. “All right, then.”

“An’ ye won’t tell Cludd you caught us drinkin’ on duty.”

“Deal.” Mask rolled his eyes, and grabbed for a half full flask.

Crosseye yanked it out of reach. “Song first,” he insisted.

“Greedyguts yourself,” Mask grumbled. “Fine. Goes somethin’ like this.” He launched into the fast paced, tongue-twisting tune, tapping one paw against the floor to keep up with the tempo.

_She’s a ragged cat, a tattered cat  
_ _A panicked, manic, haggard cat  
_ _Our dearest Queen Tsarmina_

_Scared of water and otters  
_ _Is Old Greeneyes’ daughter  
_ _And squirrels do give her a turn  
_ _Imprisoned her brother  
_ _They hate one another  
_ _And the truth of the family we’ll learn_

_She’s a hairy cat, a scaredy cat  
_ _A treats-the-world unfairly cat  
_ _Our dearest Queen Tsarmina_

_She’s foolish, the cruelest,  
_ _Has no strength to rule with  
_ _And slowly she’s losing her grip  
_ _Her advisors are useless  
_ _Her captains are clueless  
_ _The army is starting to slip_

_She’s a mad old cat, a bad old cat,  
_ _A helpless, feckless, sad old cat,  
_ _Our dearest Queen Tsarmina!_

Mask had a decent enough voice, even while mimicking a raspy weasel. Besides, the song didn’t require skill to sing. That was the point, as Ballaw had explained. Disgruntled soldiers relished poking fun at their superiors, and the catchy tune the Players had written was easy to learn, and easier to expand on. Get it caught in enough beasts’ heads and sow it carefully enough, and no one would be able to trace it back to a source.

The song went over like a charm. The three guardsmen were gleefully bellowing the words when Mask left them half an hour later, well pleased with his work.

* * *

Life in the dungeons of Kotir had become much more exciting in the past couple of days. Tsarmina’s new tenants had never appeared, much to Gingivere’s satisfaction. Late the next day, though, the prison guards had escorted Cludd and two prisoners to the same section of cells which housed Gingivere. This time, he lay still and listened intently to the key turning in the heavy locks.

“Put one of them in here, the other on the other side,” Cludd ordered, gruff voice echoing weirdly in the corridor. “They’re not to interact with each other, or be given food and water.”

Doors creaked open and thudded closed, and then he heard the distinct _kachunk_ as bolts slid home. Finally, the three soldiers turned and clanked away.

Gingivere lay in silence for a while, waiting for the sound of mailed paws to fade away entirely. He would have waited another few minutes to be certain no one would return, but the new prisoners were not patient enough for that.

“Coggs? Coggs, can you hear me?”

“Ferdy! I can just hear you! Are you okay?”

Both voices were young—far younger than Gingivere would have expected to hear, and he bared his teeth silently at the ceiling. Tsarmina was imprisoning children, now? What a terrifying conquering queen she must be.

“I’m okay, Coggs. Are you okay?”

“I’m okay, Ferdy. I am a little hungry, though.”

“Me, too.”

There was a momentary silence, though he didn’t expect it to last long. Gingivere rose to his feet and paced back and forth within the cell, trying to think of what to do.

“Ferdy? Do you think they’re looking for us?”

Gingivere interrupted now. His hoarse voice strengthened as he spoke, just loud enough to be heard by both of them. “Hush, little ones. You’ll get the attention of the guards if you’re too loud.”

“Who’re you?”

“Why’re you down here?”

The pair spoke together, and Gingivere couldn’t help but smile at their natural, youthful curiosity. “My name’s Gingivere—I’m a friend, and I’ll help you if I can. Never mind the rest for now. Let me think of how to help.”

Another few turns of the cell, and Gingivere’s eyes lit upon an iron ring set into the back wall of his cell. He tested it, found it loose, and with some concentrated effort managed to free it. Hefting it in one paw, Gingivere found the ring was attached to an iron spike several inches long, just as he had hoped.

After a quick check of the corridor, he approached one wall, tool in hand. “It’s Ferdy, isn’t it? Stand away from the wall, I’m going to try and get through to you.”

“All right, Mr. Gingivere.”

The wildcat focused all the cunning and strength of his ancestors upon the task, chipping away at the damp and mouldering mortar surrounding one of the smaller stones. Within minutes his paws were aching, and within an hour his muscles, long atrophied from disuse and poor nutrition, began to ache, but Gingivere kept stubbornly on.

It was nearing daybreak when he at last broke through the wall to the other side, sliding the block out to thud to the floor. A small wet snout poked through. “Hello, Mr. Gingivere,” the hogbabe said, still cheerful in spite of the circumstances.

Exhausted though he was, Gingivere patted it affectionately. “Hello, Ferdy. I’m glad to see you all right.”

“Are you a wildcat?”

“I am, though please don’t worry—I won’t harm you. Hush, now, I have to get on with my work.”

Invigorated by this first small success, Gingivere turned his attention to the other wall, selected a similarly damp and small block, and got to work.

Gingivere had been working for perhaps an hour when he heard polite coughing coming from somewhere above his head. “Humph, harrumph, ahem, ‘scuse me.”

Taken aback, Gingivere whirled to face the door, iron spike upraised. Finding it still locked and barred, he peered instead up at the grate which served as a window. A bird, a little robin red breast, was perched on the other side of the bars, studying Gingivere with nearly as much curiosity as Gingivere studied him. “Hello, there. Good morning,” Gingivere said quietly, never one to forget his manners regardless of the absurdity.

“Good morning,” the little bird agreed, ruffling his feathers so that he looked nearly twice his size. “Ahem, you’ll excuse my asking, I’m sure, but what are you hoping to accomplish?”

Ferdy, who had been watching Gingivere through his gap in the wall, giggled. “Heehee, I know that voice! It’s Chibb!”

Upon hearing his name, the robin startled. “Gracious! Is that one of the two hedgehogs, imprisoned by Tsarmina? I’ve been sent to look for you, young fellow!”

“Coggs is in the cell on the other side,” Gingivere said quickly, keeping his voice low for fear of the guards hearing the discussion. “If you’re from the woodlanders’ resistance, will you take a message to them from me? Tell them they have an ally within Kotir, and I will do all I can to keep both Ferdy and Coggs safe from my sister.” Though how effective that would be, Gingivere didn’t know. No matter. “Tell them, too, that if ever I have my freedom, I will do all that I might in aid to them and their cause.”

The robin bobbed in something of a bow. “Very well. Your message shall be faithfully delivered,” he promised. “And I will tell you that plans are being made for the escape of the two young ones. I will talk with you again soon!”

With one last cough, Chibb hopped back up the slanting tunnel and was soon winging his way eastwards over Mossflower, back to Brockhall. Wrapped up as he was in his thoughts, the nervous robin didn’t even notice when he zipped past the tree Argulor was nesting in.

The great eagle blinked sleepily after him, and settled back down to sleep. Hardly worth expending so much energy for only half a mouthful. Young birds these days… always in such a hurry.

* * *

Mask considered himself a brave beast by any measure—certainly braver than the Kotir soldiery—and feeding the Gloomer would certainly offer him an excuse to be down in the cells, and a chance to examine the very foundations of Kotir. Still, a chill ran down his spine when the ferret at the top of the dungeon staircase had just shaken her head sympathetically. “Better you’n me, mate.”

It wasn’t the most reassuring.

Mask marched past the three occupied cells without acknowledgement, though he was disheartened to see that, though the cell walls were damp and moldy, most of the stonework and all of the iron work was new and solid. It would be hard to break the hedgehog babes out of the cells—impossible without taking them into the main castle, somehow. He put the problem to one side for now.

The Gloomer was housed in a cavern below the foundations of Kotir. There were steps down to the lake that were slippery with moisture and slime, and pale, sightless beetles scuttled away from Mask’s paws as he inched his way down. Each step sent whispering echoes resounding back, hinting at the massive space. In spite of himself, Mask shuddered. As useful as it would be to have a first hand evaluation of the Gloomer and his strength—even better to sound the foundations of the fortress—the eerie cavern, lit only by a single torch, was raising the fur on the back of Mask’s neck. The sooner he finished, the sooner he could leave.

Mask left the wooden pail at the edge of the lake, the wooden _thunk_ resonating through the cave. Immediately, a ripple highlighted in pale blue phosphorescence glided towards the spot. Mask took two hurried steps back as the grotesque head broke the surface of the water. The Gloomer lunged for the bucket, gorging himself on the kitchen refuse.

Skirting the lakeshore, Mask peered at the cave’s walls through the gloom. Any otter worth his salt had a working knowledge of waterways. As soon as Mask had heard there was a lake far below Kotir, he’d had a hunch that he ought to get a closer look at the flow of the water down there. Picking up Gobb’s shirked duty might well be the most useful thing he’d do on this first excursion.

He’d just noted a darker space in the choking blackness when he heard a rattling behind him. Mask rolled toward the shore, coming up several feet from the waterline. Gloomer had collided with the wall he’d been looking at, and rounded on his lost prey with a snarl.

“Not today, bucko,” Mask said, taking wary steps back as the Gloomer advanced. He kept his spear between the pair of them, and when the water rat tried a second rushing attack, thwacked him heavily across the snout.

Chalking the bucket up as an acceptable loss, Mask slowly circled his way back towards the stairs. Step by step he climbed them, keeping a wary eye on the Gloomer. Even when the chain was at its limit, the rat strained to reach him, the heavy leather collar cutting into his air so that each breath was an angry wheeze.

Mask didn’t relax until he was on the other side of the door, when he could unclench his paws from around his spear and lean his forehead against the cool stonework wall. Only the empty dungeons witnessed the way his paws trembled.

* * *

Chibb paced back and forth along the mantelpiece in Brockhall as he related his conversation with Gingivere. The Corim listened to his report in growing astonishment and skepticism.

“Gingivere is on our side?”

“He’s a Greeneyes, how’re we supposed to trust him?”

Bella shook her head. “He may be a Greeneyes, but he’s suffered under his sister’s rule as well. At the least, he is a wronged creature.”

“Gingivere never took part in any killin’,” Skipper acknowledged grudgingly. “An’ I doubt ‘e wants his sister in charge anymore’n we do, mates.”

“I think we should trust him,” Sayna said firmly, paws akimbo. “At the least, we haven’t anything to lose by doing so, and at the most, we have an ally within Kotir—and one that Tsarmina fears.”

Seeing Skipper and Amber both still unsure, Vurg shook his head. “Sayna’s got good instincts, an’ they’ve not led us wrong before,” he reminded them all. “I say we give ‘im a chance.”

Opinion swayed back and forth for another several minutes, before at last the woodlanders came to a consensus—they’d accept Gingivere’s pledge of help, and use him as a point of contact with Ferdy and Coggs. Deliveries of food, made through Chibb, would be sent to all three of them, and any plans for escape for the two hedgehogs would, of course, include their new wildcat ally.

Martin, Gonff, and Columbine quickly found places helping to gather and pack some of the supplies for the prisoners. It was only midmorning, and if they worked quickly, they might leave before noon, allowing them to reach Kotir and make their delivery just at sunset.

“What about—?” Gonff murmured to Martin when they had a moment.

Martin shook his head. “It’ll have to wait until tomorrow night,” he said, nose scrunched with wry resignation.

Gonff huffed. “Ought to have supposed ye wouldn’t pass up a chance to head out wit’ th’crew,” he said with a chuckle. “Ah, well. They might need our help, eh, matey?”

“What will wait until tomorrow night?” Germaine asked, watching the pair of them over her glasses with an indulgent smile playing about her whiskers.

“A surprise we’re plannin’, marm,” Gonff said with a broad smile. “But not a bad one, I assure you.”

The abbess pursed her lips, though her eyes twinkled. “Fates forbid such a thing,” she said. Martin kept his eyes on the bread he was wrapping up, knowing she was watching him. “So your mother has good instincts, Martin?”

“Yes, marm,” Martin agreed, relieved that she wasn’t pursuing it.

“How so?”

“Sayna was the first to start planning to leave the settlement last summer,” Gonff volunteered, grinning proudly. “When Verdauga first got sick, she argued that we all ought to start planning then, not waiting until it got worse.”

Martin shrugged. “She knows creatures well,” he said. “That’s all. And won’t let anyone tell her she’s just making it sound worse than it is.”

Gonff snickered. “An’ she always knows when you’re about to get yourself in trouble. D’you remember the time she caught you a mile to the west, sayin’ you were goin’ to find dragons? I think you were about four seasons old at the time, with a kerchief on a stick over your shoulder.”

Martin gave him a very indignant look as Columbine and Germaine laughed. “That’s just mothers,” he protested. “Goody and Sayna both do the same to you, don’t deny!”

“Aye, but that’s not hard, I’m always up to somethin’,” Gonff said, and winked at Columbine, who just shook her head. Martin threw a berry at Gonff. It landed in the brim of his hat, and Gonff fished it out and popped it into his mouth.

“Now, you two,” Germaine scolded gently, fastening the final pack. “Motherly instincts aren’t to be mocked.”

“Mother Abbesses have got them, too,” Columbine contributed, smiling proudly at her leader. “Abbess Germaine’s always had very good instincts—she safely led us all the way here with them, after all.”

“Yes,” the abbess agreed serenely. “And I rather think Sayna’s instincts may lead us safely through this business with Kotir as well. I am glad she spoke up for Gingivere, as I feel the same way.”

“Me, too,” Martin said, the words lost under the noise and clatter of dishes as they gathered the packs to leave the kitchen. “He didn’t seem a bad sort. I think he’ll help us a lot.” As they left, he noticed the Abbess watching him again with a curious smile about her whiskers. It was soon forgotten, though, as the volunteers of otters, squirrels, mice, and moles all organized themselves and set off through the woods.


	15. Chapter Fifteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to Raph, who beta'ed for me even though she is extremely busy. Bless her.

The line of woodlanders who had volunteered to ferry food to Kotir set out in the early afternoon. Mostly noncombatants and a scattering of new friends from Loamhedge, they were flanked by Skipper's crew, while Amber's troop swung through the lower terraces of the canopy.

“Do you ever feel as if you're inviting trouble, going armed?” Columbine asked Gonff and Martin. The three of them walked abreast near the back of the party, with Sayna and Dinny close behind them. “It feels almost as if we're asking to be attacked.”

“Y’ never know what the cat is plannin’,” Gonff said reasonably. “If we do get attacked, better t’ be prepared for it than t’ be caught off guard.”

“I suppose,” Columbine said, though she still sounded doubtful. “I just don't see why we have to fight at all. Surely Tsarmina will give up?”

“She won’t,” Martin said with a shake of his head.

“She’ll have to,” Columbine said, just as firmly. “Ballaw keeps saying an army marches on his stomach, and he's right. If she can't feed her soldiers, and she can't find us, she'd have to admit defeat. Wouldn't she, Miss Sayna?”

Martin spoke before his mother could. “Tsarmina's not rational enough to give up, even if it meant she and her army would starve. She would never let us simply escape and live in the woods on our own.”

“Peace, you two,” Sayna said. “Columbine's right, Martin—deciding to fight is deciding to put lives at risk. And not just your own,” Sayna added, cutting off his protest before it could form. “But Columbine, I'm afraid Martin has a point as well. We won't be free until Tsarmina and her army are gone from Mossflower, and though it is true that she must be having some trouble keeping her soldiers supplied, I do not believe she is likely to simply leave.”

Martin gnawed on his lip, thinking again what he'd been turning over and over in his head since the previous summer. Tsarmina was only part of the problem. He'd listened to the Corim's reminisces and speculations. Mossflower was a peaceful country, undefended, ripe for conquest, yes: but it was the fortress that had caught the wildcat's attention seasons before he was born. If Tsarmina was driven out, there was nothing to stop another warlord from coming in to exert his own power. More and more, Martin was convinced that Kotir itself must be destroyed. Though how he would go about doing that, Martin couldn't begin to imagine.

“The price of driving her and her army out will be high, though,” Sayna said. “The price of war always is so.” Martin glanced over at her, only to see her gazing in his direction, eyes unfocused. Not for the first time, he wondered if she was thinking of his father.

The small group walked in silence for a time, before Gonff bounced his haversack higher across his shoulders and said, “Race ye to that two-topped hawthorn.” 

Distracted by his own thoughts, Martin blinked. “What?” But the mousethief was already gone, with Columbine on his tail as the both of them pelted towards the tree. “Hey, wait, not fair!” Martin took off after the couple, Dinny close behind.

Sayna watched all four dash ahead, dodging around the others in the party and shouting apologies when they came a bit too close to jostling someone. Gonff never could stand to let things be serious for very long, she thought fondly. He was so good for them all.

* * *

Still a little shaken by the encounter below the dungeons with the Gloomer, Mask spent the morning and afternoon of his second day in Kotir avoiding officers and waiting for darkness to fall. He'd lifted plenty of useful information, and more than once had heard snatches of Ballaw's song being hummed under the breath of a bored soldier on duty. He hadn't managed to make contact with Gingivere and the two hogbabes, but that was Chibb's department for the moment.

He'd seen Tsarmina send Cludd out with a small, lightly armored force, and guessed the cat hoped they'd be able to catch any search parties sent out to find Ferdy and Coggs. Mask couldn't help but be a bit disappointed in Tsarmina for that. Did she really think it would take them a full day to realize two of their own were missing, especially two who were so very young?

Still, when Cludd came hurrying back before evening like someone had set fire to his tail, Mask's blood had run cold. Unnoticed, he shadowed the weasel on his way to report to the queen, and had to duck quickly out of sight behind a corner when Cludd almost collided with her on the way up the stairs.

“Milady, I've come with expert intelligence on the movements of the woodlanders—”

“Yes, I already know,” Tsarmina cut him off. “Get four platoons ready to leave by the southern gate—they're heading for the eastern wall. We can circle around and cut them off that way.”

Mask listened intently to the voices that echoed down the stairwell, wondering what on earth the Corim's plans were. Why had they sent a group to Kotir? What was going on? Mask started down the stairway, determined to get outside the walls so he could warn his friend.

He was brought up short by a gruff shout from behind him. “You there! Weasel!” Cursing under his breath but careful to keep the frustration from his face, Mask turned. Cludd was stomping down the stairs. Mask lifted his borrowed spear in salute. “Come with me to the barracks. We'll be out on the parade ground and ready to march in five minutes, is that understood?”

“Yessir,” Mask rasped, knowing he'd lost any chance to slip away and warn the woodlanders to retreat now. Blast that weasel's hide! What a perfect time to manage to be competent!

Still steaming, Mask followed Cludd to the barracks, trying to think of a way to sabotage the ambush Tsarmina had planned.

* * *

The sun was just dipping below the horizon as they finally drew closer to Kotir. The party reconvened in a small clearing a half hour's march from the gates of Kotir, to organize and send scouts ahead. Chibb fluttered off to make sure Gingivere was expecting them and aware of their plan. Skipper and Amber took stock of their respective fighters, making sure they had full quivers and skins for slingstones. Sayna took charge of the rations, distributing them through her dozen or so volunteers and asking one last time if anyone wished to stay behind.

The last quick march was made in almost absolute silence as they met at an oak near to Kotir's eastern wall. Chibb was pacing back and forth upon a low hanging branch, wings tucked neatly behind him. Amber dropped into a crouch right beside him, startling him into a short flight and a flurry of coughing.

“Madam!” he said reprovingly from a higher branch, once he had caught his breath. “Kindly consider a less startling method of announcing yourself!”

Amber gave him a sardonic look, and didn't reply. Instead, she unslung her bow from her shoulder and strung it. Chibb ruffled his feathers and hopped back down.

“Everything shipshape, Chibb?” Skipper called lowly from below.

Chibb cleared his throat twice before replying. “Ahem, yes, it certainly appears to be so, though I have my doubts.”

Skipper nodded seriously, though there was a slight amused twinkle in his eye. “We'll be here and gone before any soldiers can show up,” he said. “Or eagles.”

The party piled the ration packs at the bottom of the elm. The squirrels ferried them up the tree to Chibb as easily as walking over level ground. Sayna directed the whole operation, checking that each pack was light enough for Chibb to manage without trouble, and making sure the more substantial food was carried first.

“Mum?” Martin asked. Even as Sayna’s paws were steady and sure on each pack, her eyes darted about the surrounding woodlands. “Something wrong?”

Sayna paused in rebalancing two of the haversacks. “I’m fine,” she said, straightening to look around the clearing again. “It may just be Chibb's nerves getting to me, but I can't shake the feeling that—”

An arrow flew out of the dark and embedded itself in the elm a foot above her head.

Amber had notched an arrow to bowstring and sent it zipping back into the gloom before anyone else had processed what had happened, and right before a full volley of arrows buzzed through the air. “Ambush!” she hollered over the sudden noise of battle. “Ambush, take cover, all of you! Skip?”

“Ahead of ye, marm!” The otters had already fanned out into battle positions, screening the unarmed woodlanders from the soldiers. “C’mon, crew, that thicket looks a bit full. Give 'em a good rattlin’ broadside!”

The air buzzed with smooth riverstones, eliciting more squeals of pain and dismay from the contingent of soldiers still hidden in the underbrush. The enemy broke cover, wielding pikes and spears as they charged across the narrow sward. Tsarmina was in the lead, armored and helmeted, a sword in her clawed grip and the light of battle in her eyes.

“Steady,” Amber said, tail flat along the branch. Her troop were arrayed around her in the foliage of the elm, the soft creak of wood just audible as they pulled their bowstrings tight. She sighted down her own arrow, the back of her paw just brushing her cheek. “Steady, let them get a bit closer. Wait for my signal.”

Skipper heard the command and echoed it to his slingers. “Don't loose until the arrows 'ave flown,” he said, spinning his sling low. “Hold now, they're almost here. Martin, Gonff,” he added to the two mice in his ranks. “Once we launch this volley, ship out. Rearguard the rest, get 'em to safety.”

“Aye, aye, cap’n,” Gonff agreed for both of them, his usual cheerful smile grim as he swung his sling and picked out his target.

For their part, the noncombatants kept behind the line of otters. Under Sayna's direction, Columbine and Ben Stickle were grouping the wounded together in preparation of retreat. Sayna had sent the three moles in their party behind the back of the elm to dig an escape tunnel. They had had to circle farther beyond enemy lines to find ground firm enough to not risk collapsing under the stress of such a large escape. It was a more dangerous escape than Sayna would have liked, but she knew that Dinny, Billum, and Urthclaw would have dug closer if they felt they could risk it. The soldiers were unlikely to notice activity behind them when they were under attack by otters and squirrels, and Skipper and Amber would do all they could to mask their escape. It would have to do.

“Stay calm, stay quiet, and keep your heads down. We'll soon be safe,” Sayna assured the group as they slipped away.

Amber decided the approaching soldiers had come close enough. “Archers, fire!” Her voice rang clear over battlecries, threats, and taunts of the charging soldiers.

“Slings away!” Skipper bellowed immediately after, and a sound like hail hitting stone broke through the clearing. More screams and cries. Columbine wiped her eyes and took a deep breath, before squaring her shoulders and ducking under a brother's arm.

“Not long, now,” she said softly, echoing Sayna's words.

Gonff popped up on the other side, having disengaged after the initial volley as ordered. He gave her a reassuring smile. “C’mon. Let's get ye both to safety.” Martin was close behind them, helping up Ben when he tripped in the rush to get away.

Sayna entrusted the last of the rations to Brush and Birch, two brawny squirrels who'd duck around the side of Kotir with Chibb and finish the mission. Finished at last, she hurried after the retreating woodlanders.

Martin had chosen to act as a rearguard and was standing at the entrance to the escape tunnel when he saw her, skirt hitched up in both paws as she ran to catch up. Two of Tsarmina's ferrets saw her at the same moment.

“Mum!”

The mousewife looked up and took in the situation at a glance. Rather than lead the two soldiers to the escape tunnel, Sayna changed direction, taking off into the woods.

Without a second thought, Martin tore off after her.

* * *

Sayna yanked her skirt from yet another grasping bush and kept running, vowing to herself that, should she get out of this alive, she was never wearing skirts into Mossflower Woods again. There was no time to drop out of sight and hide, or even to plan much more than three steps ahead. Sayna dashed on, stumbling over roots and tussocks hidden in the darkness of Mossflower Woods.

The pair of weasels behind her hadn't slowed, and may even have been catching up. Ears pricked back to listen for her pursuers and her attention split, Sayna was taken by surprise when she broke free of the underbrush and into a clearing. Stars wheeled overhead as she went sprawling tail over ears. Sayna scrambled back to her feet, heart racing, and was halfway across the clearing when the weasels broke cover as well. 

“C’mon, rebel, ain't nowhere else for ye to run,” one of them growled, though both he and his comrade was breathing hard. “You'll pay for running us about like that.”

“Ho, wait a second,” the second weasel said, rocking back on his heels and planting his spear butt first into the ground. “I thought ye said ye saw somebeast runnin' away. She's just some lil' mousewife. Ye ran us a mile around the forest for some lil' mousewife? Really?”

Sayna watched the pair of them warily, taking slow steps backwards. If she could get across the clearing and out the other side, she might make it home free. 

“A rebel's a rebel!” the first weasel argued hotly, head turned over his shoulder but still coming closer. “And it'll be a lot easier to capture some mousewife and take 'er back to Tsarmina than one of those blasted otters!”

“She ain't gonna know nothing useful,” the second said, shaking his head. “Not worth it, mate, and definitely not worth chasin’—”

“Oi, you, don't move!” the first said, noting for the first time that Sayna was closer to the opposite side of the clearing now. “I’ll kill ye if ye take another step!”

“And I'll kill you if you lay a claw on my mother!” 

“Martin,” Sayna breathed, and closed her eyes briefly, though whether in relief, exasperation, or fear even she couldn't have said. Of course he had followed them. Why had she ever assumed otherwise? 

Martin had stopped at the edge of the clearing, sling loaded and ready in one paw, eyes burning as he stared down the pair of weasels. “You might think it easier to take a mouse than an otter or a squirrel, aye, but try it! Try it, and see how wrong you are!”

The second weasel looked about as frustrated as Sayna felt with this new development, but the first spat on the ground contemptuously. “Two o' ye and two o' us,” he said, gesturing between the pair of them. “An' any captives is better than none. We'll take ye both back to Kotir, and ye can try mouthing off to Tsarmina, see how far that gets ye.” He made a move towards Sayna, only for a rock to thwack hard against his spear, sending shocks reverberating all the way up his arm. “Yargh! Why, you little worm!”

Martin glared defiance at the soldier, wordlessly daring him to fight. For a moment, it looked as if it might work. The weasel snarled, and raised his spear as if to throw—only to turn and stab down at Sayna instead. 

Three things happened at once. Sayna flung herself to one side, the spear tearing through her skirt and drawing a line of pain down her side. Martin screamed, horror and rage sounding to the treetops. 

And the second weasel drove his spear into his companion's back. The weasel crumpled to the ground. He never knew what happened. 

There was a brief silence as Sayna clutched her side, staring at the soldier from where she still say on the ground. “Sorry for lettin' ye be scared like that, marm,” he said, pulling the helmet off and scrubbing one paw through his head fur. Dust flaked free, leaving behind dark fur that looked almost black in the moonlight. “I’d hoped t'not have t'do that. Suppose I thought I could talk 'im out of it, but ah well.”

It took a moment for Sayna to get her mouth working again. “Mask?”

The disguised otter nodded, loosening and removing the slivers of wood that had narrowed his muzzle into something weasel-y. “Aye, marm. Saw this 'un go off after ye, and figured I'd be best served makin' sure you were all right. I thought I'd play dead back at the battlefield and slip off to rejoin our crew once they hauled anchor. I've got some news for the council, not all o' it good.”

Sayna took a deep breath, and nodded, gingerly picking herself up. “Your timing is deeply appreciated, friend. Thank you.” 

Martin was there the instant she faltered, taking her weight entirely. She could feel him shaking, and his eyes were still wide, still a little wild. She straightened, put one arm about his shoulders, and pulled him down into a comforting hug, nuzzling against his ear. “Mum, you’re hurt—”

“I’m all right. It'll keep until we get to Brockhall, it's not deep.”

He relaxed into her slowly. “I was so angry. I saw you fall. I saw you die.”

“I didn’t.”

“I thought you did.” 

“I didn’t,” Sayna repeated softly, squeezing him to her and pressing a kiss to his temple. “Come on, warrior. Let's get home.”


End file.
